


The Man

by MyBlueBooks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John - Freeform, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, John is a male escort, John is a prostitute, John is a sexual master, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Nothin is what it seems, Sexual Content, Top John Watson, Violence, nothing is what it seems, professionally known as "The Master"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 37,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBlueBooks/pseuds/MyBlueBooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The entire Nation is at its knees. John Watson, The Master, professionally known as 'The Man' has in his possession very compromising photographs that could destroy the most powerful family in Britain and Sherlock Holmes' name has arisen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Watson, The Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [El Hombre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280749) by [Kurolff_Kah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurolff_Kah/pseuds/Kurolff_Kah)
  * Translation into Español available: [The man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270513) by [IfTheyFitIShip (lenayuri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenayuri/pseuds/IfTheyFitIShip)



> Not an English speaker, so I apologise in advance for all my mistakes. Please, forgive them. Thanks for reading.

"My employer has a problem."

Before Sherlock Holmes could have asked, a man seated next to his brother expressed the motive of his required visit to the Palace which represents the very heart of the British Nation.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature and in this hour of need you, my dear brother, your name has arisen," Mycroft, the older Holmes said, keeping his diplomatic and straight face.

Sherlock looked at him. "You have a whole secret service, why come to me? The police force of sorts, even the marginally secret service."

"This is a matter of highest security and therefore of trust."

The man next to Mycroft made a little gesture, and the older Holmes opened his suitcase and handed Sherlock a picture. "What do you know about this man?"

Sherlock Holmes only looked at it. It was a picture of a blond, blue-eyed man. He had short hair and pale complexion. "Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention. He's been in the center of two political scandals in the last year and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants, separately."

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is he?" asked Sherlock, still holding the picture.

"John Watson. Professionally known as _The Man_."

Sherlock frowned. "Professionally?"

"There are many names for what he does. He prefers _Master_."

"Master..."

The word seemed to struggle in the detective's mouth, and Mycroft smiled. "Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex."

"Sex _doesn't_ alarm me."

Sherlock used to believe sex was something that would never alarm him.

Until now.

"How would _you_ know?"

A few seconds of silence and Mycroft handed him a brown envelope with more photographs. "He provides, shall we say, _recreational scolding_ for those who enjoy that sort of things and are prepared to pay for it. These are from his website."

The envelope had pictures of John Watson, the Master, wearing provocative underwear and a riding crop, in many suggestive positions. Offering what he does. There was also an inscription:

_"Some are born to rule,_

_Some are forced to serve._

_When you worship at the feet of the world,_

_You will be in the presence of your God._

_You will whimper. You will cry. You will feel every hit,_

_Physically and mentally._

_You will know when you are beaten."_

"And I assume this Watson man has some compromising photographs," said Sherlock as he placed the photographs into the brown envelope.

"You're very quick, Mister Holmes," said the man sitting next to his brother, impressed. Certainly he didn't know in depth anything about Sherlock Holmes' brilliant, magnificent brain.

"Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?"

The man looked down, clearly embarrassed, hurt. Everything was about a person of significance to the man who clearly was working for the family for most of his life. "A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Sherlock curled his lips, looking at the man until Mycroft spoke again. "I can tell you is a young person... a young female person," explained Mycroft Holmes, not pleased by the requirements of information of his younger brother.

"How many photographs?"

"A considerable number, apparently."

"Do Mister Watson and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, they do. In an imaginative range, we are assured."

"And I assume in a number of very compromising scenarios."

"Can you help us, Mister Holmes?"

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

Now he was enjoying it. The man was desperate as Mycroft. Two men, probably both were the left and the right hand of the most important old lady in the country and they were practically begging for his help. "What case? Pay him now and in full -"

"He doesn't want anything. He got in touch. He informed us the photographs existed. He indicated that he has no intention to use them to exhort either money or favour," explained Mycroft and Sherlock smiled.

"Oh, a _power play_? A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a Master. Oh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

Sherlock Holmes loved to play games. He loved mysteries. He loved to prove how clever he could be and how clever he was. And this game, this particular game was good enough for him. He stood up from his place in that fancy and posh sofa ready to leave. Ready to play the game. "Where is he?"

"He's in London. He's staying at -"

"Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day. Laterz!"

* * *

John Watson really missed London. He could see, appreciate its characteristic cloudy sky, the red buses, the dark cabs. His driver was glancing at him at every minute, when his BlackBerry went off. His sources were working as he expected. They sent him the pictures of his new enemy.

Pictures of Sherlock Holmes.

He smiled at them. This was getting fun.

Once the car pulled in front of his place, he ran directly to his room. His navy blue suit and his striped tie wasn't good enough to receive the famous Sherlock Holmes. Because John Watson knew he was going after him. He was coming for the photographs.

"Kate. We are going to have a visitor. I'll need a bit of time to get ready."

A red haired woman appeared and smiled at him, while crossing her pale legs and standing in the door frame of his room. "Is he good?"

"A bit not good," replied John as he started removing his clothes.


	2. Battle Dress

There were moments when Mrs Lestrade kicked out his husband from their house because the Detective Inspector couldn't (or didn't want) to leave his office/work. And, what a coincidence, she kicked him out the same day Sherlock started working and tracking Mister Watson's steps. This time, Greg assured him it was definitive when he arrived at 221 B Baker Street carrying a heavy bag with his belongings.

Sherlock Holmes was capable enough to live by himself. Mrs Hudson, the landlady was like his housekeeper. Well, like his mother actually, making him tea, lunch, breakfast, dinner... and even cleaning his flat, making his bed and washing his clothes. Even his underwear. He didn't need a flatmate. But the one who needed him to have a flatmate was Mycroft. And it was even better if the man was a Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard with a license to use a gun and a police board.

"I'm happy you're here, Detective Inspector. You're always welcome," said Mrs Hudson as she opened the front door for him. "Sherlock's upstairs, not sure what he is doing but after he came this morning he has been making a mess with his clothes."

"His clothes?" Lestrade climbed the stairs, still carrying his bag and glanced at the Detective's room. He could see piles of shirts and pants all over the floor, but Sherlock was wearing only his dark suit, his long coat and his blue scarf.

"I see Mycroft sent you here."

"My wife -"

"Your wife is not having another affair with that PE teacher. Spare me the explanations and come with me. I'll need you."

* * *

"No..." John Watson looked himself at the mirror and shook his head in disapproval. His blue shirt and his dark and thin jumper wasn't exactly what he was looking for.

"Works for me," said his assistant from her place. No matter how many times he walked through his closet, nothing was good enough to wear for his visitor.

"Everything works on you, darling."

Kate smiled and laughed. John loved her laugh, and he really appreciated her. She was always there to experiment, try new games with him.

But The Master's eyes lit up when he realised which were going to be the most suitable clothes.

* * *

"So we are going to see -"

"I trust Mycroft told you the details, let's save some time. Stop here!" The cabbie did as he was told and Sherlock and the DI walked a few meters away from the street, the consulting detective making himself sure no one was looking loosened his scarf a little bit and ran a hand through his dark curls, messing them.

"Punch me."

"Punch you?" Asked Lestrade, confused.

"Yes. Punch me. In the face. Didn't you hear me?"

"l always hear punch me in the face when you're speaking but it's usually subtex -"

"For God's sake." Sherlock punched Lestrade, trying to make him furious. But what he never expected was a very hard punch directly aimed to his left cheekbone. The result was the one he expected, but not the following reaction.

"You're a Detective Inspector!"

"I had bad days!"

On the floor, Sherlock was trying to fight a very annoyed D.I. Greg Lestrade, who seemed to take Sherlock's words "punch me" far serious than he really should have.

* * *

"How do you want your hair?"

"Just like it is now."

Kate helped him with his blond and slightly long hair and then, she caressed his pale cheeks, making him blush a little.

"What are you going to wear?"

John smiled at her through the mirror. He was only wearing a dark dressing gown and nothing else under it. "My battle dress."

She went down, enough to place her face next to his, over his left shoulder. "Oh... lucky boy."

And the doorbell rang. They looked at each other and Kate nodded to his employer. Both were more than ready to receive their visitor.

"Hello?"

"Um yes... sorry. I've been attacked just here and - please, can I come in?"

The red haired woman smiled at the screen. There was the famous Sherlock Holmes, dressed as a Vicar with an injury on his cheekbone. The Master was going to be so pleased.

"Sure."

When he entered, he did it with the company of another man, late forties, gray hair and showing her his police identification.

"D.I. Lestrade. I already called the officers. Do you have any first aid kit?" Kate nodded, gesturing him to follow her but before leaving, she told the taller man to have a seat and wait in the little sitting room.

For a few moments Sherlock looked at every inch of the place trying to figure out where the photographs could be. Obviously this Mister Watson knew he was coming and placing him in that room -

"I'm certainly informed you have been attacked. I don't think Kate caught your name." Holmes could hear that male voice coming nearer the room. He settled again in his place on the sofa and fake tears started to fall from his gray eyes.

"I'm so sorry - I -" And there he was, John Watson, the Master, _naked_ in front of him.


	3. Vatican Cameos

"It's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fight, isn't it? Well, there now we're both defrocked... Mister Sherlock Holmes."

"Mister Watson, I presume."

John Watson was standing naked in front of him. His blond hair was like gold and his blue eyes were piercing his gray ones. His skin was pale not only on his face, but on his body too.

"Look at those cheekbones," said John lowering his gaze, meeting Sherlock's high and sharp cheekbones. "I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" asked The Master, seductively, removing that white fabric from the Detective's neck, which was decorating it, making him look like a Vicar and with a fast movement he bite it. Mister Watson raised his left and pale hand to slap him, when D.I. Lestrade appeared in the scene. He was holding a bowl with water and a napkin.

"Right, this should -" He looked at John Watson from head to toes and then to the consulting detective, who was still speechless. "I've missed something, haven't I?"

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes and The Master gestured the older man to have a sit. "Please, Mr Lestrade, have a sit. Or if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."

"I had some in the Palace," said Sherlock and he straightened the collar of his dark shirt.

The blond man sat in the small armchair in front of him and crossed his legs. His right leg over his left one and then he folded his arms over his naked chest. "I know."

"Clearly. You are not stupid. You have been having an affair with a young female person who may become the Queen of this country and you have photographs to prove it."

John Watson smiled at him, his blue and intense eyes on the consulting detective in front of him. He was amazed by his presence. He was everything and even more of what the media and the Internet said. They looked at each other for seconds.

"I had a tea too, at the Palace. If someone's interested," interrupted the D.I. of the Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes looked at John Watson from head to toes. Question marks were placed all around The Master. And being Sherlock Holmes and not being able to read people, made him look at Lestrade, just to check on his deductive skills, to see if they were working. The old man was wearing a new shirt. He had used an electric and not a blade to shave that morning. His shoes were clean, the wife had been busy. And judging by his dark eyes, he had gone to that strippers club again. With Anderson.

But then again, he couldn't see anything on John Watson.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" asked John Watson leaning closer to Sherlock. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"

The Master smiled. "No, I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself."

Lestrade laughed, bringing both men back to reality. John looked at him, so did Sherlock. "Can you put something on, please? Er, anything at all. A napkin?"

"Why? Are you feeling exposed?" Asked John, playfully.

"I don't think Lestrade knows where to look -"

"No, I think he knows exactly where," The Master stood up from his place, and glanced at the D.I. "But I'm not sure about you."

Holmes, whose services have been required by the most important family in Britain handed him his long coat, which John accepted. "If I was about to look at naked men, I'd go to those stripper clubs Lestrade goes."

"You asked me to go with you last week -"

"It was for a case."

The Master put on Sherlock's long coat and sat on the sofa, next to Lestrade. "Never mind, we've got better things to talk about. Now, tell me, I need to know... how was it done?"

"What?" Asked Sherlock, confused.

"The Game. Moriarty's game."

"That's not why I'm here."

John smiled and licked his lips. "No, you're here for the photographs, but that's never going to happen and as we're chatting -"

"That's a private case! How do you know about it?"

"I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he likes."

Lestrade nodded and seated next to him, but several inches away. "And you like... policemen?"

"I like Detective stories... and Detectives. Brainy is the new sexy," admitted The Master. He added a smirk to his white face and winked at Holmes.

"They didn't - the hostages couldn't say anything about him or otherwise they would be blown up. That's all you need to know."

"OK, tell me, how did he do it?"

Sherlock curled his lips. "He didn't do it."

"You don't think he did it?"

"I don't think he did it, but I know the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."

John frowned and looked at him with his blue eyes. "OK, but how?"

"So they are in this room. Thank you. Lestrade, the door, let no-one in." DI Lestrade nodded and did as he was told, leaving both men alone.

"Several hostages, placed in different and unrelated places in the city with enough explosives to blow up an entire floor of a building. No one knows him. The only thing they were able to hear was his voice. The key was keeping him away from the calls. But the old lady died."

"I thought you were looking for the photographs -"

"No, looking for them would take me ages, so let's talk a bit. The old woman died, but the other hostages didn't."

"I don't understand," admitted John.

"Try to."

"Why?"

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think. It's the new sexy."

John looked at the floor. He felt the coldness underneath his feet while they were on the floor. "Because they couldn't see him -"

"So what? His voice was calm and peaceful but he was going to kill them. Voices and sounds are important. They can tell you everything. For instance..."

A beeping sound woke them up from the deductions about The Game. A smoke alarm. And John Watson's eyes fell over the furniture behind the detective's body.

Sherlock Holmes turned around and thanked him. "Hearing a smoke alarm, a father would look towards his child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." With a movement of his hands on the black furniture, the mirror hanging on the wall moved, revealing a safe-deposit box. "I really hope you don't have a baby in here. All right, Lestarde, you can turn it off now."

The alarm was still ringing. And there wasn't any signal of the D.I. until three men out of the blue appeared, aiming their guns at his grayish head.

"Mmm. You should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit is always in the first key used, that's something, but after that, the sequence is impossible to read. I see it's a five digit code. It can be your birthday. No disrespect, but you clearly were born in the mid seventies and seven is barely used as the first number, so -"

"I'd tell you the code by now, but you know what? I already have."

Sherlock Holmes frowned.

"Think," John Watson smiled, showing for the first time his teeth and blushed.

"Hands behind your head. On the floor. Now!"

Three American men entered the room. One of them was pointing a gun at Lestrade' head, the other took care of Mister Watson and the last one, which seemed to be the leader, was pointing his gun to the dark haired man.

"Open the safe, Mr Holmes."

"I don't know the code -"

"We've heard him. He told you. Now, open the safe!"

"If you did listen, you would know he hadn't told me the combination!"

"Oh for God's sake, ask him! He knows the code!" Yelled Lestrade at the man holding a gun at his head and looking at The Master.

"At the count of three, you shoot D.I. Lestrade."

"I don't know the code -"

"One... two... three -"

"Stop!"

The man nodded at the other one who was still pointing his gun to the old D.I.

Sherlock glanced at John Watson, whose eyes were down on the floor.

The taller man moved his finger through the buttons.

90-18-3.

Click.

The safe was open. And with a quick glance at Watson, Holmes understood everything.

"Vatican cameos!"

His long fingers moved the door revealing a gun inside prepared to shoot. It was directed to the second man over Lestrade, and taking advantage of the shock of the two other ones, the Detective attacked the blond one with his gun and Watson hit the one over him with his elbow, removing the gun of his hands.

"Do you mind?" asked Sherlock to John and he shook his head.

"Not at all," John slapped one of the Americans with the gun leaving him unconscious.

And the camera phone was now in Sherlock Holmes' hands.


	4. Till Next Time, Mr Holmes

"He's dead." D.I. Lestrade checked on the man who had been pointing him with a gun.

"Thank you. You were very observant," John Watson smiled at the consulting detective.

"Observant?" asked Lestrade confused.

"I'm flattered." John smiled again, and his blue eyes were shinning. Proudly.

"Don't be." Sherlock Holmes' tone was serious. Then their eyes met and for a second time both men shared a look.

"Flattered?" Lestrade, the oldest, was as confused as anyone could have been after being threatened with a gun and almost got shot in the head.

"There'll more of them, they'll be keeping an eye on the building."

And as soon as both men left the room, John Watson ran to the safe. It was empty.

"I'll call Sally -" The curly haired man shot five times to the sky and soon enough they heard people crying in despair and surprise. "Sherlock -"

"On their way. And shut up, it's quick."

Both, D.I. and consulting detective made their way back to the house, not before Sherlock was already giving him more orders. "Check the rest of the house, see how they got in." The Master turned around, to find Sherlock Holmes back, playfully playing with his camera phone as if it were a trophy. "Well, that's the knighthood in the bag."

"She offered you that knighthood many times in the past. Now, that's mine." He extended his pale hand, with his palm open to maybe get what it was his. The other man took a closer look at the device. It was locked. Password protected.

**I AM - - - - LOCKED.**

"All the photographs are here, I presume."

"I have copies, of course."

"Don't try to fool me. You don't have any copies. You've had permanently disabled any kind of up-link or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them."

John Watson wasn't going to give up. "Who said I'm selling?" The Master smiled again. A confident smile, Holmes noted.

"Well, why would they be interested? Whatever you keep on, it's clearly not just photographs -"

"That camera phone is my life, Mister Sherlock Holmes. I'd die before I let you take it. It's my protection." John's voice was firm. It was the first time since they met that Sherlock heard him speaking with such tone and also he could hear the despair in the very deep of Watson's voice. Lestrade called his name, but apart from that, their breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the room. Mister Watson extended his hand again.

"It was."

When both men had reached the room upstairs, Kate was already sedated over the floor and Lestrade was checking on her vital signs. "Must have come in this way." D.I. gestured them the window in the bathroom and Sherlock muttered "clearly". John went down to check on his assistant, but the old police man assured him Kate was just out cold. She was going to be fine.

"Oh, God knows she's used to that."

Truth to be told, Kate wasn't his assistant because she was pretty. She was intelligent and playful just like him.

"There's a back door. Better check it, DI Lestrade." The older man looked at Holmes who nodded at him.

"Sure," and then he ran downstairs, leaving both men alone.

"You're very calm."

The Master took a needle he had hidden inside one of his drawers and looked at himself on the mirror. The deep baritone tone of Sherlock Holmes' voice was something he found quite arousing, but he wasn't only checking on his own appearance.

"Well, your crotch trap did just kill a man," said Sherlock as he continued checking on the bathroom window.

"He would have killed me. It was self defense in advance." John Watson walked until they were just inches apart from each other and caressed his left arm and then, when Holmes turned to see him, Watson stuck the needle into his right arm, strongly enough to let the drug into the Detective's body.

"What is that? What -"

The Master slapped Sherlock very hard across the face, sending him to the floor and everything was fuzzy. "Give it to me." Nothing was clear, but Holmes was able to see those blue eyes over him and The Master's pale hand open waiting for the camera phone.

"Give it to me. Now."

"No." Sherlock Holmes tried to stand up, but his legs didn't respond.

"Give it to me, now!"

"N... no." Sherlock fell again. And John Watson, desperate for the D.I. coming at any moment now and Holmes wasn't collaborating, he took his black riding crop with his left hand.

"Oh, for Goodness sake. Drop it!" He threatened him with it, but the consulting detective refused again. "I... said... drop it!" And between every word, John Watson hit him with the object, hard, against his powerless body. Soon, the drug was taking more advantage and Sherlock's hands left the device free on the floor.

"Ah. Thank you, dear. Now, tell that sweet little posh thing that the pictures are safe with me. They are not for blackmail, just for insurance. Besides, I might want to see her again." Sherlock tried to stand up, but without any succeed. "Oh, no no no no no. It's been a pleasure. Don't spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me... The Man who beat you." He stroked his face with the riding crop, softly. "Good Night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

John Watson ran to the bathroom when D.I. Lestrade found Sherlock almost unconscious over the floor.

"Jesus what are you doing?" Asked Lestrade when he looked at Sherlock, unconscious.

"He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke with his own vomit. I'm a Doctor and believe me, it makes a very unattractive corpse."

"What's this?" Asked Lestrade, holding up the needle he found next to the consulting detective and looked at it carefully, trying to figure it out what it was.

"He'll be fine. I have used it with loads of my friends. You know, I was wrong about him. He did know where to look." The Master smiled playfully to the policeman and sat on the edge of the window.

"What are you talking about?" The blond man glanced at Sherlock, who was still fighting to keep his eyes open.

"The key-code to my safe."

"What was it?"

"My measurements." The Man, who had that camera phone with those compromising photographs raised an eyebrow and escaped.

Sherlock was losing his consciousness. When all of the sudden, he was standing next to a bed, and there was an old woman. Blind. With all her chest covered with enough Semtex to blow up an entirely floor of a building. Sherlock tried to speak, but John Watson silenced him placing one of his short and pale fingers over his lips. "Hush. I'll do the talking."

The blond man moved in the scene until he was kneeling next to the blind woman. "She couldn't see him. None of the hostages could see him. They only heard, knew, his voice. And then, no one said a word about him." The Master moved from his place and smiled at him continuing with his deduction. "He killed her, from all the different hostages, because she started to describe him." The room vanished and then he felt his body falling on his mattress.

"Hush, now. I'm only returning your coat." Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to admit it, but he felt a pair of thin and soft lips over his and then he woke up. The consulting detective was lying in his own bed. He looked around, but he was alone. John Watson wasn't there.

"Where is - Lestrade!"

"Sherlock, go back to bed." The taller man was on the floor after falling from the bed. His legs were shaking and he couldn't stand up.

"What happened -"

"I don't suppose you remember much. You weren't making a lot of sense. I have you recorded in my phone, I'm warning you -"

"Where is he?" Sherlock couldn't think straight. Everything was fuzzy again.

"Who?"

"The man. That man."

"What man?"

"John Watson!"

"He got away, no one saw him. He wasn't here, Sherlock. Now," He grabbed the dark haired man and put him back in his bed. "Go to sleep, you will feel better tomorrow morning."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, you're great. Now, I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"

"Not reason at all." D.I. Lestrade closed the door behind his back and left him alone, revealing a dark and long coat hanging in it.

**AHHH**

A male groan beeped from inside of one of the coat's pocket. With all his strength, Sherlock stood up and took the phone from the pocket and read it.

**Till next time, Mr Holmes.** **JW**


	5. Texts

"The photographs are perfectly safe." The consulting detective was reading the papers the following morning after the incident with Mister Watson. Despite DI Lestrade, who was still living there tried to get a few words out of him, the young man didn't say a word about The Man.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker?" Mycroft Holmes, concerned as he said he was, was visiting his young brother and making himself sure the D.I. he had convinced to stay with Sherlock was still there.

"He's not interested in blackmail. He wants... protection, for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at his house?"

"How can we do anything while he has the photographs? Our hands are tied."

"He'd applaud your choice of words. See how this works? The camera phone is his get out of jail free card. You have to leave him alone. Treat him like royalty, Mycroft."

"Though not the way he treats royalty." Suggested the D.I. when Sherlock's mobile beeped.

**AHHH.**

"What was that?"

"Text."

"But what was that noise?"

"Did you know there were other people after him too, Mycroft, before you sent Lestrade and I in there? CIA trained killers, I think."

"Thanks for that, Mycroft. I may be the D.I. of the Scotland Yard, but they were CIA killers."

**Good morning, Mr. Holmes. JW**

"It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes!" Almost yelled Mrs Hudson to the older brother of his young tenant. She was very protective over him, like a son.

"Oh shut up, Mrs Hudson!"

"MYCROFT!" Both men enjoying their landlady's breakfast yelled at him.

"Apologies."

"Thanks"

"Though do in fact shut up."

**AHHH**

**Feeling better? JW**

"There's nothing you can do and nothing he will do, as far as I can see." Sherlock was trying to make his brother forget everything about The Master. Something about him the previous day had made him believe John Watson was more than a sex worker. He was clever. More clever than anybody else. Maybe, he was just as clever as he was.

"I can put maximum surveillance on him."

"Why brother? you can follow him on twitter. I believe his username is _The Whip Hand._ "

"Most amusing. Excuse me. Hello?" Mycroft's BlackBerry's sound could fill the silence of the room, until D.I. Lestrade started with his interrogation.

"Why does your phone make that noise?"

"What noise?"

"That noise. The one it just made."

"It' a text alert. It means I got a text."

"Hmm. Your texts don't usually make that noise."

"Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently as a joke, personalized their text alert noise."

"Hmm. So every time they text you... "

**AHHH**

"It would seem so."

"Could you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life, it's..." Mrs Hudson, still cooking for them was blushing at the text alert.

**I'm fine since you didn't ask. JW**

"See, I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone. It would've been in your coat."

"I'll leave you to your deductions."

"I'm not stupid, you know."

"Where do you get that idea?" Sherlock Holmes put down the papers and glanced at his brother, who was coming inside the room, once he finished his phone call.

"What else does he has? John Watson. The Americans wouldn't be interested in him for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more. Much more. Something big is coming, isn't it?" Both brothers were standing each one in front of the other, just inches away. Lestrade kept eating his bowl with cereals and milk the lovely Mrs Hudson prepared for him, but still he was looking at them.

"John Watson is no longer any concern of yours. From now on, you will stay out of this."

"Oh, will I?"

"Yes, Sherlock. You will. Now if you'll excuse me I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

"Do give her my love." The dark haired man took his violin and started playing the tune of God Save the Queen, under the surprised eyes of his new flatmate and a very angry expression coming from his brother.

* * *

"Lovely Sherlock. That was lovely." The Detective put that his violin and glanced at the door. Molly Hopper arrived wearing a long coat, and he deduced, as always, she was hiding a very suggestive dress under it.

"Oh, dear Lord."

"Hello everyone. It said in the door to come up."

"Everybody saying hello to each other. How wonderful!" Said Sherlock, his voice full of sarcasm.

"So, we're having Christmas drinkies?" The poor blond pathologist ignored his sarcasms and removed her coat, revealing that awful dress Sherlock had deduced before.

"No stopping them, apparently."

"It's one day of the year where Sherlock has to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it."

"Lestrade, the count of your police website says 1895. And you've got a photographs of me wearing that hat!"

"People like it."

"No, they don't. What people?"

D.I. Lestrade prepared a few drinks when Molly, trying to be more sociable, asked him about his wife. "Umm, actually I'm going to see her after midnight. She's coming later after, err... she's visiting her parents -"

"No, she's sleeping with her personal trainer and I've see you have got a new boyfriend, Molly. You're serious about him."

"Sorry, what?"

"You're seeing him tonight, giving him a gift."

"Take a day off -" Lestrade tried to make Sherlock stop.

"Surely you see perfectly wrapped present at the top of the bag. The others are slapdash. It's for someone special. The shade of red echoes her lipstick... an unconscious association, or one she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hopper has love on her mind. That she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift. It suggest long term hopes that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make up and clothes.. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breast -"

_**DEAREST SHERLOCK** _

_**LOVE MOLLY XXX** _

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always."

Sherlock Holmes didn't need to turn around to see his landlady and D.I.'s faces. "I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He gave Molly a kiss in her cheek and as soon as it happened his phone beeped again.

**AHHH**

"Oh no, that wasn't, I didn't -"

"No, it was me."

"Really?"

"My phone."

"Fifty seven."

"What?" "Fifty seven of those texts, the ones I've heard."

**Mantelpiece. JW**

"Thrilling that you've been counting." The taller man walked to the place John Watson texted him about and took a blue little box with a black bow in his hands. Immediately, his mind went back to that moment when he first met The Master. And his deep blue eyes. Those deep and blue eyes he tried to look at and deduce everything about him, and yet he couldn't read nothing.

"Excuse me." Sherlock closed the door of his room and sat in his bed. He removed the black bow easily and found inside the camera phone John Watson told him was his life. And he realised what that called Mycroft.

"Mycroft, I think you're going to find John Watson tonight."

_"We already know where he is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."_

"No, I mean you're going to find him dead." When he finished the call, D.I. Lestrade was already opening his room's door and asking him if he was OK.

"You're OK?"

"... Yes." Sherlock Holmes held the camera phone tightly against his chest, wanting to say no. John Watson, gave him what for him was his life. The Master was dead.


	6. I'm Not Dead, Let's Have Dinner

"You didn't need to come, Molly." Both Holmes brothers were standing together, side by side, in front of a cold silver table, a dead body and Molly Hooper.

"It's OK, everyone else is busy with... Christmas. The face is a bit sort of bashed-up, so it might be a bit difficult." The pathologist removed the white sheet which was covering John Watson's dead body. She was right, the face had several bruises but it was still recognizable.

"That's him, isn't he?"

"Show me the rest of him." Molly took the sheet with her tiny hands, and hesitated for a moment, but then she did as she was told. She moved the white fabric until the dead man's feet. It took Sherlock just one or two seconds to recognize the rest of the man lying dead in front of him.

"That's him."

"Thank you, Miss Hopper."

"Who is he? How Sherlock recognized him from - not his face?"

Sherlock smiled to himself, just to himself and he was sure none of the others had seen that glimpse of... a new feeling. He heard Molly's question, of course he had. John Watson was clever. Very clever.

"How did you know he was dead?"

"He had an item in his possession, one he said his life depended on. He chose to give it up."

"Where is this item now?" Then, the younger Holmes turned around to see a family crying. It was hardly a difficult deduction. A dead sibling, relative. Christmas day.

"Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock... Well, you barely knew him."

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." And Sherlock Holmes left Bart's.

Now his mind was processing the next events: his brother calling D.I. Lestrade who casually will say that he had another row with the wife and then he will have to organist his socks index. Again. He couldn't understand why people was still doubting about him. He was clean. But the only one occupying his mind, was John Watson.

* * *

"Composing?"

"Helps me to think."

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock left his fingers fall from the strings of his violin and typed in the D.I.'s computer. His police website was still stuck at 1895 since Christmas day and after days now, he was sure it was a message.

"The count of your police website is still stuck at 1895."

"Yes. Faulty, can't seem to fix it."

"Faulty, or you've been hacked and it's a message." From his blue robe's pocket he took Mister Watson's camera-phone and typed up the number.

**I AM 1895LOCKED**

**WRONG PASSWORD**

**I AM - - - - LOCKED 3 ATTEMPTS REMAINING.**

"Just faulty."

"Right, well. I'm going out for a bit."

Just as it had been in the last days, Sherlock was barely speaking to him and to everyone. Not even a nod, or a gesture. The consulting detective took his violin again, and continued with his sad song, the DI knew was The Man's song.

"D.I. Lestrade."

"Yes?"

"So, any plans for new year tonight?" Just a quick look from head to toes at the mysterious woman in black and high heels and Lestrade erased the wife from his mind. According to Sherlock she was sleeping with her personal trainer. And being under the orders of one of the most important man in the British Government, he knew for sure he was going to be Sherlock's babysitter for a while.

"Um... err, nothing fixed. Nothing I couldn't heartlessly abandon. You have any ideas?"

"One." The woman in black dress and high heels looked at the black car parked on the street and Lestrade sighed tired.

"You know, Mycroft could just have phone me, if he didn't have this stupid bloody power complex."

Soon enough they were at Battersea, in an old factory. Certainly, D.I. Greg Lestrade knew Mycroft Holmes loved to be dramatic, but he didn't need to take him so far to keep their talk away from the younger Holmes.

"He's writing sad music, doesn't eat, barely talks, only to correct the television. I'd say he's heart-broken, but, well, err... he's Sherlock. He does all that anyway."

"Hello, DI Lestrade." He caught his breath. In front of him was John Watson, alive. The same John Watson that he perfectly knew he had been playing with Sherlock's text alert. The same John Watson he knew was the owner of that moan.

"Tell him you're alive."

"He'd come after me."

"You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you."

"DNA test are only as good as the records you keep."

"And I bet you know the record keeper."

"I know what he likes. And I needed to disappear." He smiled. John Watson smiled, showing all his white and perfect teeth.

"Then how come I can see you and I don't even want to?"

"Look, I made a mistake, I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping, now I need it back, so I need your help."

"No."

"It's for his own safety."

"So is this. Tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine. I'll tell him and I still won't help you."

"What do I say?" His blue eyes, glued to his BlackBerry were contrasting the gray of the place and his dark outfit. He was wearing a pair of blue dark jeans, a black shirt and a black cardigan.

"What do you normally say? You've texted him a lot."

"Just the usual stuff."

"There's no usual in this case."

He glanced again at the screen of his mobile and his gloved fingers were dancing over the keyboard. " _'Good morning, I like your funny hat. I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner'_ , _'Hmm, you look sexy on Crimewatch. Let's have dinner'_. He replied _'I'm not hungry'_ and I asked him again _'Let's have dinner. I don't mean dinner. I mean sex.'_ But then again _'I'm not hungry'._ "

"You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him. He never replies."

"No, Sherlock always replies to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He'll outlive God trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?"

D.I. Lestrade was amazed. He couldn't fully understand why this man, the same man who had been sleeping with the future Queen of their country was playing with Sherlock Holmes and what made him feel more angry was the fact John Watson was enjoying it. "I don't know, maybe."

"Are you jealous?"

"We are not a couple. I'm just babysitting him -"

"No, you aren't and I'm texting him right now; _'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner'_."

"Who the hell knows all about Sherlock Holmes? But for the record, I don't even know if he's gay -"

"Well I am and I want him in my bed, begging for mercy. Look at us both."

**AHHH**

Lestrade and John Watson's eyes were wide as saucers when they looked a tall man in a dark coat running his steps away from them.


	7. Let's Have Dinner

That night, D.I. Lestrade went back to Baker Street. The wife disappeared and the British Government was at its feet. He was Sherlock Holmes' babysitter, but he was also his friend, and as his friend, he wasn't going to let him alone. When he entered the room, he found the consulting detective fixing the strings of his violin. The last tune Lestrade could hear was his song, The Man's song.

"He's alive then. How are we feeling about that?" He offered him a drink, which the young man refused politely and placed his violin under his chin, ready to play when the Big Ben chimed. It was midnight. New Year.

"Happy New Year Lestrade."

"Do you think you'll be seeing him again?"

 _Auld Land Syne_ filled the room and he fell into the armchair defeated. It was always the same. It was impossible to get to John Watson. Sherlock wasn't going to say a word, and in the depths of Greg's mind, he knew there was something more.

John Watson was walking through the busiest streets of London. He was watching lots of people cheering each other, drinking, and raising their glasses for the Queen, when he heard his phone beeping. He removed it from his leather jacket and couldn't help but smile.

**HAPPY NEW YEAR. SH**

* * *

A few days later, he decided he wasn't going to stay there and wait for him to appear. He was going to find that code out, and most importantly, he was going to find out what The Master had in that camera phone. What could be so important that two of the most powerful governments in the world were at his heels? The x-ray were the most suitable and only possible way to investigate what could be inside. John Watson gave him enough proof to show him how clever he was. He had made his own way in the world with that camera phone, and having affairs with politicians, novelists, and even the young female person, the next in the line to the throne. The whole Commonwealth could be destroyed if The Master, the one who possessed power not only in bed but outside as well, opened his mouth as well as his phone.

"Is that a phone?"

"It's a camera phone."

"And you are x-raying it."

"Yes I am."

"Whose phone is it?"

"A man's."

"Your boyfriend?"

"You think he's my boyfriend because I'm x-raying his possessions?"

The tone of Molly Hooper was making him feel nervous. The x-ray scans were showing that the camera phone had four to six acid implants inside. Anyone who tried to unlock it using the wrong code would destroy the files inside.

"Well, we all do silly things!"

"Yes..."

And then he realised something. According to his words, John Watson sent his camera phone to him for safekeeping but now he needed back. "They do, don't they? Very silly... He sent this to my address. He loves to play games..."

"He does?"

**I AM 221B LOCKED**

**WRONG PASSWORD**

**I AM - - - - LOCKED.**

**TWO ATTEMPTS REMAINING**

Sherlock sighed. John Watson was a clever man, and solving his little puzzle was going to take more effort than thinking of his own address.

* * *

When he returned from Bart's, Sherlock could smell him. His scent was something he haven't been able to forget since their last meeting. Sherlock knew Mister John Watson had been in his room to return his coat and his phone. He followed the smell, and found him sleeping in his bed. His blond hair was still damp and he was wearing a blue tee shirt and a pair of blue worn pajama trousers. He looked peaceful in his sleep. Eyes closed, pink lips, soft white skin. Sherlock could have never guessed he was a sex worker. But still, even wearing clothes, the detective couldn't tell a single thing about him. Most people were like an open book. He could read them with just a quick look; unfaithful husbands and wives, smoker, public school kids, heart diseases, money problems, affairs, he could read it all. But John Watson was an empty book, a book without words, because they had been erased by the owner. John Watson erased himself.

"So, who's after you?"

"People who want to kill me."

"Who are they?"

"Killers."

They were sitting in their chairs. The blond man was occupying his black leather armchair while D.I. Lestrade was updating his police blog. Without an offer, The Master took his blue gown and tied it around his body. It was long for him, and Sherlock could see how the soft and silky material was adhering to Watson's body, like a second skin.

"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific, you know," D.I. sighed, mimicking the same movements he did when he was questioning a witness, but this time the consulting detective was the one asking, questioning.

"So you faked your own death to get ahead of them?"

"It worked for a while."

"Except you let Lestrade know you're alive, therefore me."

"I knew you'd keep my secret. Where's my camera phone?" His blue eyes lit up a bit when he glanced around the sitting room looking for it. If he wasn't wrong, the camera phone could be anywhere. Mister Holmes was clever, very clever and he was clever too. Anyone could think the item was in a safe box, or buried deep in the park. But if John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes as he thought he knew him, the device was there, close to him...in plain sight.

"It's not here."

"What have you done with it?"

"I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago."

"I need it."

"Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?"

"Molly Hooper, she could collect it and take it to Bart's, one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the cafe, one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back." John Watson smiled at the plan. And Sherlock Holmes saw that.

"Very good Detective Inspector, excellent plan. Full of intelligent precautions."

"Thank you."

"So, what do you keep in here? In general I mean." And as the Master as predicted, the camera phone was in plain sight. The famous Detective in the funny hat had it inside his breast pocket.

"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful."

"For blackmail," suggested Lestrade, but months ago the sex worker assured all of them he didn't need blackmail.

"For protection. I make my way in the world. I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be. Her Royal Highness is one of them."

"So how do you acquire this information?" Sherlock's gray eyes were on his. Anyone, anyone outside on the streets wouldn't give a penny for that man. Not like his physical appearance was bad. But he was just a man, a sex worker. But then he owned most of the Government secrets. He knew what they all liked. Many men and women had met his skin, his body, and Mister John Watson, The Master in sex had all their secrets.

"I told you - I misbehave."

"But you've acquired something more dangerous than protection. Do you know what it is?"

"Yes... But I don't understand it."

"I assumed. Show me." The Master extended his hand.

"The pass code." Sherlock handed him a camera phone and he smiled at him while he typed the code. He deduced all. John Watson was used to his phone and maybe he had him in his trap.

"It's not working."

"No, because it's a duplicate I had made into which you just entered the numbers 1058. I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that, but thanks anyway."

**I AM 1058LOCKED**

**WRONG PASSWORD**

**I AM - - - - LOCKED**

**ONE ATTEMPT REMAINING**

The dark haired man frowned and the sex worker smiled, John almost laughed. "I told you that my camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand." He had been defeated, again. He wasn't lying in his website description. He was a Master and he knew when people were beaten. John Watson knew he had beaten him. His cleverness wasn't a fluke. He wasn't a fake. The Master was clever.

"Oh, you're rather good."

"There was a man, a MOD official and I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know but I photographed it... he was a bit tied up at the time" The blond man handed Sherlock the phone and he frowned at what he was looking at.

"It's a bit small on that screen. Can you read it?"

**007 confirmed allocation. 02A 05B 07C 10D 14E 16F 18G**

"I had one of the country's best cryptographer to take a look at it, through he was mostly upside down, as I recall... couldn't figure it out. What can you do, Mr Holmes? Go on, impress a man like me."

Slow motion.

The dark haired man felt everything going in slow motion; Lestrade's police mug hitting the table, his eyes moving through the numbers and John Watson's lips over his left cheek. And he knew what it was.

"There's a margin for error, but I'm pretty sure there's a swimming race tomorrow at 6.30 at Bristol South Swimming Pool, apparently it's going to save the world, I'm not sure how, but give me a moment, I've only been on the case for eight seconds. Oh come on, it's not a code, these are bet tickets."

Lestrade and Watson stared open mouthed. The Master had to admit it was amazing... more than amazing. It was greater than all the stories he had heard about Sherlock Holmes.

"Please, don't feel obliged to tell me that was amazing."

"I would have you right here, on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."

"I've never begged for mercy in my life."

"Twice."

Blue and gray. They held their gaze. They even held their breath. But John knew he was going to have him. He was going to make him beg, and twice.

He knew it.

* * *

"Coventry."

"I have never been. Is it nice?" He stopped. He looked down and glanced at the strings of his violin. The fire was glowing, and John Watson was lying in the armchair opposite him, only wearing his blue gown.

"Where's Lestrade?"

"He went out, a couple of hours ago."

"I was just talking to him."

"He said you do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?" He smiled.

"It's a story, probably not true... in the Second World War, the Allies knew Coventry was going to be bombed, because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that, so they let it happen anyway -"

"Have you ever had anyone?" John interrupted him. His blue eyes were shining even in the darkness of the room. The only light was coming from the fireplace and from his eyes. The Detective felt drunk and intoxicated by those eyes, by his lips.

"I'm sorry?"

"And when I said had, I'm being indelicate."

"I don't understand." Sherlock frowned and Watson left his place in the armchair and crawled until he was on his knees between Holmes' legs and with both hands over his tights.

"I'll be delicate then. Let's have dinner."

"Why?"

"You might be hungry."

"I'm not."

"That's a bit not good."

"Why would I... want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" Sherlock Holmes let his right hand travel to The Master's left one and caressed it softly. His wrists were soft, unmarked. His fingertips told him how many lovers he tied up in a bed, but his wrist told him more things; John Watson had never been tied. He was a Master, a good one. Then Sherlock looked at his eyes. They were bright blue and his pupils were dilated. If John Watson had erased most of his life from his body, Sherlock knew he found two important things about him just touching his wrist and looking into his eyes.

"Mr Holmes, if it was the end of the world, if it was the very last night would you have dinner with me?" He was closer now. Their lips were just inches away from any touch. And he felt weak. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt weak. He was weak under the power of The Master. "Do you want to have me, Mister Holmes?" John Watson bit his lip. He wanted to kiss that man so badly. He wanted to make those lips bleed, but he didn't need to do it, because Sherlock Holmes kissed him first. He felt as though he was in heaven because it wasn't a hungry or desperate kiss. It wasn't a demanding kiss like the ones he had from his clients who looked for pleasure and to show off. Sherlock Holmes wasn't like any of his clients. Not even like the novelist, the DNA keeper or Her Royal Highness. The Consulting Detective in the funny hat was sweet. He cared. And he fell in front of him. Both men were in their knees, over the soft carpet and in front of the fireplace. "Do you want to have me, Mister Holmes?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You have been starving yourself for too long. Let's have dinner. Anything on me," whispered John, while Sherlock's long, cold, soft fingers untied the blue gown. John gasped, and tried to keep himself calm. He was always the one in charge, and he was nothing if not The Master. He pushed the armchair, leaving a large space to explore each other, to love each other.

But when Sherlock met the scar in his left shoulder John stopped moving. Everything stopped. Even their breathing halted. "You're a Doctor... an Army Doctor. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan."

"Body make up... that's why I couldn't read anything on you." John kissed him again and undid the young man's shirt and trousers. He wasn't even surprised when he felt those hard muscles under his fingertips. He was pale, with long and endless white limbs. And he felt the urge to bite that skin, he wanted to leave marks, John wanted to hit him with the riding crop. The Master wanted to mark Sherlock Holmes, because he was his. He wanted that man to be his and no one else's.

Both men, now naked, fought with their mouths. It was something completely new for him and it felt good. Mister Watson was kissing him as though his own life depended on it.

Sherlock had read books; he had looked on the Internet. But those texts and lectures about sex, relationships and love didn't explain the feeling inside his chest. And he wondered if The Master was feeling the same, or if he was just doing his job.

Watson pushed the other man until his back met the floor, and he fell over him and between his legs.

Everything was new.

Sherlock felt that impulse from the man on top of him, and gasped for more air. He continued kissing him and trying to push things further, he opened his legs and positioned them around the The Master's waist, and like a boy who's discovering a new toy, who's discovering how to play with it, John started stroking Sherlock's hardness with his experimented hands. The detective melted under his touch, John was so pleased. He wanted to be the only one who knew what Sherlock Holmes, the great detective in the funny hat, liked. He wanted to be the first and the only one who ever got a chance to explore Sherlock's body. John Watson, The Master, wanted to take Sherlock's virginity with him.

Soon John's fingers started to trace patterns close to Sherlock's entrance and pushed a finger, feeling how the muscles there started to fight him back, but Sherlock had his eyes shut as he pushed down, trying to make his body accept John's intruding fingers. The Master added a second one and then a third, stretching Sherlock's hole for what was eventually going to happen soon. The consulting detective gasped in pleasure. John was scissoring him with those experienced fingers and he liked it. Sherlock liked it so much, the sensation was good, and the waves of pleasure going through his whole body was making him convulse.

He needed John, now.

"I need you," panted Sherlock as he looked at John Watson's blue eyes.

The Man nodded and kissed him one last time while positioning himself between his long legs. Being so inexperienced, but clever, Sherlock locked his legs around John's waist and closed his eyes as he felt him filling him completely with one long thrust. Sherlock's fingernails soon found a spot on John's back and The Master found his own place on Sherlock's neck.

Firstly, John didn't move, making himself sure Sherlock's body was getting used to his length and as soon as Sherlock started rocking his own hips, he started moving back and forth, doing long and deep thrust, and each of them were driving Sherlock mad, touching his prostate and showing him a world full of pleasure. Full of all the pleasure he always missed.

Both kissed each other longly. Their kisses were sweet and deep, not quick and desperate. It felt right.

John knew he was close, but he also wanted Sherlock to be as close as he was. John started stroking Sherlock's hardness which was between their bellies and with long and soft strokes, and his thumb on the head, he could make Sherlock feel close to the edge.

"Sherlock - you're so tight,"

"John, I - I'm close,"

The Master smiled inwardly and kissed him again, bitting the detective's lower lip. "Come Sherlock, come."

Soon John started to move faster, and his thrust became quick and deeper. He raised Sherlock's legs, allowing himself to get a better angle. The stroked he was performing on Sherlock's cock also became quicker and soon, both men were panting each other's names.

Both came together, John inside Sherlock and the detective over their stomachs.

They didn't have sex, they didn't fuck. They made love.

John Watson's eyes and wrists told him that before.


	8. I AM SHERLOCKED

The young man found himself alone in his sitting room, dressing himself and glancing at the blond hair left on his jacket sleeve with curiosity. His pale skin was burning, product of the previous activities and being more specific, thanks to The Master's touches. When he was given this case, Sherlock Holmes had clearly defined in his own clever mind that sex was something that could never alarm him. Sex was just something people did to fill their needs, needs he never had. Primitive, absurd and enslaved. The human race was the slave of that activity and the Sherlock was sure he wasn't going to be added to that kind of people.

Not even when he found himself inside John Watson, and when the only thing in is mind was giving him the pleasure he wanted, both wanted, even when it was his first time. John Watson, the Master and Dominator in several people's minds and beds, was his first.

His thoughts were interrupted when a man, well dressed and wearing dark sunglasses appeared with an envelope in his hands.

"Are you here to take me away?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes."

"Well, I decline," Sherlock fell on his own armchair and glanced at his kitchen. A shade of blue moved in the darkness of the flat, only noticed by him.

"I don't think you do," the security man with a neat haircut and manicured hands handed him the envelope and Sherlock took it with a sigh. It was a swimming pool competition ticket with his name printed on it.

And once outside Baker Street, a black car was already waiting for him. Clearly expensive and with another man who looked like a copy of the first one who dragged him out. Sherlock was a hundred percent sure he was meeting Mycroft and not anyone else, just like Lestrade did before. Despite any attempt to talk and do the men speak, they remained silent during all the way.

"Something is going to happen in that pool, something that might blow it up or save the world. The British and the Americans know about it but rather than expose their source they're going to let it happen - the pool will blow up. Coventry all over again."

The car stopped outside a sports club after a good time and once Sherlock put a foot inside the building he knew something wrong was going on. It was a dark and cold night and the men in dark suits gestured him to get inside, just to find a swimming pool of approximately one hundred meters.

Everything was obscure and the only light in such dark and deserted place was the one caused by the water and the little lamps inside the pool. There was also a dead body floating in the middle of the pool. A boy about ten to twelve years, floating face down in the water. Dead.

The silence of the place and the mystery itself ended when he heard a voice he quite knew from the other end of the room. "The Coventry Conundrum. What do you think of my analogy? He will swim, and he might win, but he's dead."

"The boy is paralyzed, mission accomplished by the killer, hundreds of witnesses but then, he dies. And no one cares for his eczema problem and the poison in his medicine. Therefore, for his missing shoes."

"Neat, don't you think? Or were you too bored now to notice the pattern?" Mycroft Holmes was enjoying himself. He was enjoying the situation and the position of making his own little brother understand what he had done wrong. Just like when they were just kids, the only thing he wanted was protect Sherlock. And protecting him, sometimes involved making him dance and making him do his own mistakes.

"I was a kid. No one listened to me and now -"

"We ran a similar project then, with the Germans a while back, though I believe one the hostages of your last case didn't make it. But that's the deceased for you... late, in every sense of the word."

"And how this kid is going to swim?"

"Never will he swim. The entire project is canceled. The terrorists cells have been informed we know about the bomb he had threatened you months ago in this same place. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email and months and years of planning... finished."

"Your MOD man." The older brother smiled and glanced at the watch he had inside his tailored jacket. He knew they had seconds before someone else joined them. And no matter how much he wanted to stop his words, the words he knew he had to say and make his brother understand would be heard.

"That's all it takes. One lonely, naive man, desperate to show off and a man clever enough to make him feel special."

"You should screen your defense people more carefully." Mycroft raised his eyebrows surprised how the other Holmes ignored the tone of the conversation. How Sherlock could ignore the facts when they were in front of his own eyes. Everything, since the meeting in Buckingham Palace till now, all the clues and had been coming from Mycroft's own hand and all of them were in front of the consulting detective's eyes. And yet, Sherlock Holmes was blind. And in the deep of his brother's mind, he knew exactly the cause of that blindness.

"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I'm talking about you!" The young brother frowned, meeting the corners of the truth. "The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because that was textbook. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance. Just like he said -"

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock Holmes refused to accept he had been fooled. He refused to accept he had been dancing and moving like a puppet does when its tied to his master's strings. There wasn't such a thing like dance. He wasn't dancing, no.

"Absurd? How quickly you decipher the email for him? Was it the full minute? Or were you really eager to impress?"

"I think it was less than five seconds." The dark haired man turned around to see John Watson, dressed with a expensive and tailored blue suit and his hair neatly combed. He looked at him from head to toes, but nothing. Sherlock couldn't read anything that could tell him what was about to happen. And the neutral and little worried expression on the Master's face was driving him crazy. More than he could ever admit.

"I drove you into his path. I'm sorry. I didn't know," said Mycroft, addressing his words to his brother. And the detective frowned even more, because Mycroft never apologized.

Three men in a dark pool and each of them were looking for something they desperately wanted and yet, no one could guarantee the results of that night.

"Mister Holmes, I think we need to talk." Finally John Watson spoke again and the young man turned to see him.

"So do I, there are a number of aspects I'm still not clear on -"

"Not you, Junior. You're done now." The Master, the man who brought a Nation to its knees and gave Sherlock Holmes the only thing no one could, ignored him and walked till he were just inches away from the other Holmes who he was sure, haven't had a decent sleep since he got in touch to inform him about the existence of the photographs. The heels of his shoes were hitting the cold floor, causing the only sound in that deep silence.

"There is more, loads more," He looked for his camera phone inside his blue jacket and took it with his left hand and raised it on the air, showing it like if it were a prize. "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

The older Holmes lowered his gaze until his green eyes met the floor.

John Watson had him in his hands.

* * *

"We have people who can get into this."

"I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months. Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my phone."

They were in Mycroft's manor now. The blond Holmes was in front of the Master, who was sitting with his legs crossed. Away from them was Sherlock, who remained silent in a little armchair, with his back to them and looking at his own reflection in the thick windows. The place was cozy and warm and the three men were sure everything was going to finish that night. All of them but Sherlock.

"Four to six additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small explosive. Any attempt to open it will burn the hard drive."

"Explosive. It's more me. I do explode Mister Holmes but I do not burn," John Watson winked at the man in front of him, causing a frown in the middle of Mycroft Holmes' eyes. The Master could read people too, something that he had learned with his job and he knew he wasn't wrong about the older Holmes. He was deeply worried and having not only citizen's lives but the reputation of the most powerful family in Britain was causing havocs on him.

"Some data is always recoverable."

"Take that risk."

"You have a pass code to open this. I deeply regret to say, we have people who can extract it from you." The young Holmes sighed to himself and closed his eyes, while Watson called his name.

"Sherlock?"

"There will be two pass codes. One to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress, you can't know which one she's given and there would be no second attempt."

The sexual worker smiled, showing his perfect, white teeth, like a proud mother would do when his child proved his intelligence. "He's good, isn't he? I should have him on a leash. In fact, I might... later."

"We destroy this, then. No one has the information."

"Fine, good idea. Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you burn."

"Are there?"

"Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not playing any more," the sexual worker took a white envelope from the inside of his jacket and handed it to Mycroft with a little wink. "A list of my requests, and some ideas about my protection once they're granted. I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation, but then I'd be lying. I imagine you'd like to sleep it on."

"Yes, thank you."

"Too bad. Off you pop and talk to people."

He moved from his place in the chair and sat with one leg over the table, just inches away from the man who occupied a minor position in the British Government.

"You've been very... thorough. I wish out lot were as half as good as you."

"I can't take all the credit, I had a bit of help. Jim Moriarty sends his love."

"Yes, he's been in touch. Seems desperate for my attention, which I'm sure can be arranged."

"I had all this stuff and never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the Consultant Criminal. Gave a lot of advice about how to play with the Holmes boys. Do you know what he calls you? The Ice man," John looked away to Sherlock, who he was sure, was looking at him through the reflection in the windows "And the Virgin. But I already took good care of that, haven't i, Sherlock dear?" Mycroft looked at him and how he was enjoying the situation of having both brothers in their knees for him. "Didn't even ask for anything, he just likes to cause trouble, that's my kind of man."

"And here you are, the Master that bought a Nation to its knees. Nicely played." They were about to shake their hands when that deep voice coming from the end of the room changed the temperature of the room. Sherlock wasn't going to surrender. He wasn't going to be on his knees.

"No."

"Sorry?"

"I said no. Very, very close, but no," said Sherlock as he stood up from his place and walked till he was face to face with the Master who took his virginity just moments ago. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate, you were enjoying yourself too much."

"There's no such thing as too much."

"Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Craving the distraction of the game, I sympathize, but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the loosing side."

"Sentiment, what are you talking about?" Said John Watson, half laughing with joy. He was getting worried because this wasn't on his plans. Sentiment wasn't a word in his speech.

"You,"

"Oh, Dear God, look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you. Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?" The only one who could see the tears in his blue eyes was Sherlock Holmes. Two men fighting the urge of kiss each other and lock themselves away from the world to live a fantasy they knew, was impossible. Someone was going to loose and someone was going to win.

Sherlock knew he was going to win.

Or that's what he thought.

"No. Because I took your pulse," He touched his left wrist and then lowered his head until he was just inches away from The Master and continued talking for him and just him."Elevated. Your pupils dilated. I imagine everyone thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self portrait, how true of you." Then, he took the camera phone from his brother's hands and started typing the code he knew was going to unlock it. "The combination of your safe, your measurements, but this, this is far more intimate, this is your heart and you should never let your heart rule your head. You could have chosen any number and walked out with everything. But you just couldn't resist, could you? I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof."

Sherlock was about to press the enter button in the camera phone when John Watson took his hand, the same hand he used to touch his body and let tears fall from his blue eyes. "Everything I said, it's not real. I was just playing the game, don't do it -"

"I know. And this is just losing."

**I AM SHERLOCKED**

**AUTO-DESTRUCTION MODE ACTIVATED**

But the camera phone, far away from unlock itself with the pass code Sherlock tipped in, made an strange sound like an alarm and The Master took it from Sherlock's hand and threw it to the fireplace. It made a click sound and then, it exploded. Both brothers looked surprised and John looked away.

"You were wrong, so wrong. What you don't remember, or at least you ignore, is the fact I'm a Doctor. There are medicines to cause dilated pupils and rise my blood pressure. You should have seen that when you touched me. I don't usually take pills when I'm doing my job, but with you I had to. And you're right, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the loosing side, Mister Holmes."

Just inches away from their mouths, and John was in tiptoes kissing him softly. Mycroft looked at them astonished, not able to say a word. The atmosphere of the place was different. It wasn't a fight anymore. And drive Sherlock to Mister John Watson, sex worker's path was his biggest mistake. The Master broke the kiss and looked at him, with a furious blush on his cheeks.

"Am I expected to beg?"

"Yes, twice, as I said I would have you in that desk," replied the blond man and Sherlock looked directly to his blue eyes. "But you were right about one thing, though. I won't even last six months now."

"Please, John, I'm -"

"Sorry about the _dinners_ I promised you, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

Finally, the Master who brought not only an entire Nation to its knees but the most clever man in the world, lost his own game. But not only him, Sherlock Holmes, the great Detective lost too. The dark haired man knew he had just signed John Watson's death sentence thinking he had feelings for him. There wasn't any camera phone and 'The Man' wasn't going to last too much in this world.

"If you're feeling kind, lock me up or let me go. I doubt I'll survive long." Mycroft looked at him and then to his brother, who was crying in the depths of his own despair, with his back to them and with his eyes on the fireplace and what had left of the camera phone he knew was John Watson's life.


	9. Good Bye, Mr Holmes

"You don't smoke,"

"And you don't usually frequent coffee shops, Detective Inspector."

After the John Watson incident, or game how Lestrade liked to remember it, everything changed. His wife's lover died in a strange car accident and she even called him, assuring him she wanted to be back with him. This time, Sherlock kicked out of Baker Street when he deduced his new start with his wife. And he even told him the way his wife's lover was murdered under Mycroft's instructions. Greg knew Mycroft had been behind all that. Somehow he was glad to be back with his wife, he really loved her. But in the other side, he felt bad for his friend Sherlock. His brother was always behind those who cared for him. Even with Mrs Hudson, but she had always been like that with the young Holmes.

And one morning, he called him. "Is that the file of John Watson?"

Mycroft Holmes nodded and took a sip of his Earl Grey. They were sharing a little table inside the coffee shop downstairs 221B. "Closed for ever. I have a few things to tell my brother about that man. Somehow he managed to get himself enrolled into a witness scheme and he currently lives in America. New name, new identity. I don't know about his profession, though. He will survive unless they never see each other again."

The D.I. just looked at him while he was talking. The Holmes brothers had an amazing ability to talk about special, unique and important things like if they were the most stupid on the world. "He despised him at the end. He didn't even say his name. He was just calling him _The Man,_ "

"He despised him or he missed him, Detective Inspector?"

"He doesn't have those feelings, Mister Holmes."

The man who owned all the power of the country on his hands smiled. "My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"

"I don't know," admitted the police man.

"Neither do I. But initially, he wanted to be a pirate."

"He will be OK with this witness protection, and the fact they can't see each other," Greg knew how hurtful his words were. Sherlock was his friend, he considered him his friend and as friends, he wanted the best for him. He also knew Sherlock had feelings for that man, John Watson. But the Master managed to mess things up with the detective. He messed with Sherlock's mind and heart and that was something he didn't like. He felt sorry for Sherlock, but maybe staying away from each other was for the best.

"I agree. That's why I decided I'm going to tell him that."

"Instead of what?"

"He's dead. He was sent to Afghanistan and got himself caught by a group of terrorists two months ago. They recorded a video showing that they had him, but the Government didn't respond, of course. He was beheaded."

Lestrade closed his eyes. He had seen those videos. The terrorists usually tortured men and women and then they send those videos to the governments in order to get what they wanted. And after what John Watson had caused to the most important and powerful family in Britain, he was sure Mycroft didn't lie when he said they didn't care about him. "Is this definitely? He has done this before."

"He used my brother before to fool me. And now he wasn't at hand to help him. He was clever, but not like enough to escape from the Afghans don't you think, Detective Inspector?"

Greg nodded and watched how Mycroft moved the folder with John Watson's file and the famous camera phone. "So... shall you tell him?"

Lestrade looked at Mycroft's eyes and took the folder with him.

* * *

"Good news for you, Lestrade. Got you a murderer. It was the gardener."

"Hi, Sherlock. I'm here for... uh - It's, it's about John Watson."

The detective moved his eyes from the microscope which he was currently working with and looked at the D.I. standing in front of him. His familiar dark coat was slightly damp from the rain outside and he was carrying a folder and the camera phone. His facial expression was the same from when he had something important to tell him. "Oh. Something happened? Did he came back?"

Lestrade looked around, trying to find the proper words to say what he had to say, remembering Mycroft's words. "No, he's just...- I popped in with Mycroft downstairs and he gave me this."

"He's back in London?" The young Holmes was now facing him. And Lestrade had to think fast.

"No, he's... he's in America!"

"America?"

"Mmm, got himself into a witness protection scheme... well, you won't see him again."

"I never said I was going to see him again. Did you two have fun downstairs? I can smell the Earl Grey and the chocolate biscuits."

Greg smiled just for himself and relaxed a bit. He felt like someone had pulled two tons off his shoulders. He was already preparing himself for a long questioning from his friend. But far away from it, Sherlock just returned to his place on the kitchen table and continued working with his microscope.

"Yes and now I have to take this back to Mycroft -"

"I want the remains of the camera phone."

"There's nothing on it, this has been -"

"I know, I still want it."

"I have to give this back to your brother, Sherlock. You can't keep it." The young man's hand was still on the air. He wasn't going to give up. "Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft, it's the government's property now..."

"Please." Greg Lestrade had to fought between what his mind was thinking about John Watson and what he felt in his heart for his friend Sherlock Holmes. The Man, how he liked to call him had ruined certain part of the young detective. And Greg hated him for doing that to his friend. But Sherlock was begging him. And he couldn't say no.

"Thank you."

"I should better be going. I left Sally in charge and..." Sherlock took the camera phone and placed it inside his pocket and continued working, ignoring Lestrade's comments. And somehow, he felt relieved. Because it seemed like everything was going back to normal. "Never mind... listen, did he ever text you again?"

"Once."

"And what did he say?"

" _'Good bye Mister Holmes'_."

"Right... um, see you later."

As soon as Sherlock heard Lestrade getting into his own car and driving away from Baker Street, he locked all the doors which had any access to his flat and made his way to his own room. He saw the four handcuffs on the four bedposts and smiled.

And slowly and with ease, Sherlock started undoing some buttons of his purple shirt. He took his own riding crop and sat on his big bed, waiting for him to come from his room upstairs.

"America? Really?" asked john Watson as he appeared on his room, only wearing Sherlock's blue night gown.

"Let's have dinner," Sherlock kissed John and The Master closed the door behind is back.

 


	10. Pink!

"Hello, Detective Inspector."

Greg looked at Sherlock and then at the man who was wearing what looked like an awful, ridiculous, soft jumper. Months ago he was told John Watson had been caught by terrorists and beheaded. Greg imagined a headless body lying on the dusty streets of an unknown place in the middle-east.

But Greg never expected to see John Watson, 'The Man', as Sherlock had always referred as, there in Baker Street drinking tea and watching a crap tv show.

And apparently he had been living there for months without no one knowing.

Not even Mycroft Holmes who knew everything about everyone.

"What is he doing here?"

"Not your business -"

"I'm his flatmate." John said calmly.

Greg wanted to laugh. "His flatmate? We almost got ourselves killed because of you -"

"Where is the body?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

John saw Sherlock enjoying the moment.

Cheeky bastard.

Lestrade nodded. "You know how they never left notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did." Really? "Will you come?"

Sherlock knew this was challenging. Of course it was. Three bodies and a fourth left a note.

Interesting.

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock pulled a face and John smiled. He had heard stories about that 'Anderson' bloke. According to Sherlock the man was insufferable and John was really interested to see how 'insufferable' he really was.

"Anderson won't work with me."

Greg bit his lip, exasperated. "Well, he won't be your assistant -"

"I _need_ an assistant."

John continued sipping more of his tea and fixed his eyes on the telly screen.

Greg noted there was something in the air... domesticity.

Where they boyfriends now? Sherlock and John? Were they a couple?

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

Greg accepted the deal. "Thank you."

Lestrade shot John one last look and a nod. John nodded back and both he and Mrs Hudson watched him leaving.

As soon as the police man was out of earshot, Sherlock turned to his landlady and to John and leaped and clenched his fists as if he was a little boy allowed to open his Christmas presents before breakfast.

"Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

John and Mrs Hudson shared a look and smiled.

Sherlock put his coat on and started looking for his scarf when Mrs Hudson went downstairs leaving the two men alone.

"Here." John asked, finding the blue scarf that was tied to one of the table legs after a good 'experiment' he and the detective did the previous night. "Should I wait up tonight?

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's thin lips. "You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor."

Long time ago, yes. "Yes." And later a sexual... Master.

"Any good?"

Very. "Yes. Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

And lots of anatomy, thank you very much. "Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

Oh, lots. Especially when he ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants, separately. The woman was all fun, but the novelist... he had been so boring. "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

The detective grinned just a bit. "Wanna see some more?"

"Oh _God_ , yes." But... "I can't, Sherlock."

"You can't remain locked up here."

"Mycroft will know. And they'll kill me."

Sherlock winced because that was awfully true. John was to be killed if found safe and sound. Everyone thought he was death and he had successfully kept Mycroft out of this for the past months.

Living with John was good. Far too good. Too good to be truth.

John was nice, sweet, tender, clever - that was important - to be clever. You have to be clever to be with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson fulfilled that requirement perfectly. And John Watson made the best tea Sherlock had ever tasted.

And John was a good shag.

But apart from all of that, the tea, the sex, the cleverness, everything, John was a very good friend and companion.

What they were? Friends? Lovers? Fuck buddies? Flatmates? Detective and rent boy?

'I'm his flatmate' John said when Lestrade asked. 'I love you', John said after they made love one night. 'I should pay half the rent' John said after they ate dinner last night.

They were...

Who cared what they were if they were together?

"They got the photographs," Sherlock said, taking John's black coat that had been unused since he had started living with him. "They have nothing against you."

John nodded. "But _she_ wants me dead. I'm the man who boasted about sleeping with his granddaughter and having photographs to prove it."

Sherlock lowered his face an kissed John's lips. "You'll be safe. I won't let anyone, not even my fat brother, take you away from me. I promise."

"Selfish bastard."

The detective chuckled.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."

"Both of you?" The landlady asked, watching the two men heading to the front door.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!" Sherlock kissed her cheek and smiled.

That was something. Mrs Hudson had seen his tenant changing since that strange man, Doctor John Watson started living with him. Apparently they were together, the landlady assumed. She had heard a few noises... but she was happy to see Sherlock Holmes so happy with someone.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent?" Obviously. "The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

* * *

"Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Harry's your sister."

A sister John had stopped seeing since he returned from Afghanistan and decided to make a fresh start. "What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!"

"Sherlock! I could get killed!"

"Hello, freak." A woman with dark hair said and looked at the detective and John. "Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock's eyes were on John's and he couldn't help but smile a bit. Colleagues, really? That was new.

"Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend."

Sarcasm.

"A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague?" the woman asked surprised and then turned to John. "What, did he follow you home?"

More or less. "Would it be better if I just waited and..."

"No. Come with me."

That phrase had escaped their lips so many times by now.

Stop with the innuendo, John thought.

And soon both were heading to the house where apparently a woman had been found dead. But as soon as they got to the pavement a man, a ratted-faced man was standing there, blocking the entrance, his arms folded over his chest, a disapproving look on his face.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

That was Anderson?

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear," John heard Sherlock taking a deep breath, as if trying to smell something. "Is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that," Anderson said angrily.

Sherlock snorted. "Your deodorant told me that."

What? "My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of _course_ it's for men! _I'm_ wearing it!"

Ha.

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson and Donovan shared a look.

John looked Donovan blushing.

That was funny.

He had witnessed Sherlock's deductions, had seen his magnificent being deducing and observing. That's what he liked about the detective, his cleverness, his brains.

Brainy's the new sexy.

"Oh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply -"

"I'm not implying _anything._ " Sherlock turned to make himself sure John was following but stopped for a moment to shot one last look to Donovan. " _  
_I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Donovan was horrified to say the least. When John waked past Donovan he looked at her knees and yes, she 'scrubbed' Anderson's floor apparently.

"What's he doing here?!"

Sherlock put some gloves on. "He's with me."

"But he -?"

"I _said_ he's with me."

Lestrade eventually accepted 'The Man' walking into the crime scene with Sherlock and when he started to lead the way upstairs to see the dead woman, Sherlock squeezed John's soft hand and smiled.

Everything's OK.

* * *

"Shut up."

John looked at Lestrade. He was thinking.

And when Sherlock was trying to observe, and people was thinking around him, it was annoying.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

John had already been told off once.

But then they watched Sherlock going down to the floor and examining the body.

There were plenty of things, John knew. By just looking you could find nothing. But Sherlock, such a strange clever creature, knew he had to observe and then he'd find all the clues.

"Got anything?"

"Not much."

Cheeky bastard.

"She's German. 'Rache' it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shut the door close just in Anderson's face. "Yes, thank you for your input."

"So she's German?"

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

John frowned. "Sorry – obvious?"

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade asked.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

Ah, that was a sort of kinky thing they had. Sherlock called him 'Doctor Watson' when they were nothing but tangled limbs, swollen lips, a few moans had already left their lips and -

"Of the message?"

"Of the body." Sherlock fixed his eyes on John's. "You're a medical man."

"Wait no," Lestrade stepped into the moment. "Are you seriously asking him? We have a whole team right outside."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Another thing John liked. "They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here," then Greg turned to John. "And _you_ too."

"Because you need me."

Lestrade nodded and sighed. That was awfully true. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson."

John looked at Sherlock. "Hmm?"

The detective turned to Greg and looked at him. A 'leave us alone' look.

And Greg understood. "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself."

As soon as they were left alone, both went down to the floor.

"Well?"

"What am I doing here?" John asked very softly, his blue eyes on Sherlock's. "Sherlock -"

Sherlock cut him off. "Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping Mrs Hudson with her basement."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

And? Well, he had seen worst, really.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go _deeper_."

Oh.

John smiled, stuck his tongue out and licked his thin lips seductively. In the way he knew Sherlock liked. In the way he knew _weakened_ Sherlock.

"As soon as this finishes, you'll find yourself on your knees, Mr Holmes," John said softly, but with authority. "And I'll go as deep as you want."

Sherlock's pupils dilated and his pulse quickened.

He couldn't wait to solve this case, this case of a woman in pink clothes lying death to go back home and just be with John.

"Oh."

"What?"

Sherlock smiled. "Pink."

* * *


	11. Twice

"Moriarty."

John looked up from his plate. "Hmm?"

"The cabbie. He said Moriarty."

Ah. Jim. Yeah, John knew him. A bit of a trouble, he was. Quite a dangerous man, quite a fun bloke too. Quite a powerful man who could tear your world apart by a mere snap of his fingers.

But try to make fun of Jim Moriarty and you are in serious trouble.

"What about him?"

"You met him."

"Yeah." Sherlock looked at him waiting for further explanations and John had to roll his eyes. "Once." The detective coked an eyebrow. "Twice... a few times, yeah."

Sherlock had to try very hard not to curl his long fingers around John's wrist and make him spill everything he knew about Jim Moriarty. Sherlock was aware - in fact he knew that Jim had helped John to play games with him, when the only thing John wanted was to play a power game with the most important family in Britain and he came in the way.

The mere thought of Jim and John together made Sherlock sick. Awfully jealous. Angry.

Damn. "Did you fuck him?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

Jim Moriarty was indeed a criminal mastermind – Brainy was the new sexy.

And John loved the brainy type. But not Jim. Jim was too fucked up. Jim was what John would never accept as a client: too intelligent, too clever, too twisted, too much of a criminal for him – too dangerous.

"Shit, Sherlock," John said and sipped more of his wine. "I didn't."

Sherlock glared at him. No, he didn't. John and Jim were not intimate then. "But you wanted to."

"God, no."

"Why?"

"Are you seriously asking?"

The detective shrugged. "You played games with me. He helped you to escape. And you offered him those photographs."

"And?" John asked, still not sure of what Sherlock was implying. "What does that have to do with –"

"Jim does _everything_ with a purpose." Sherlock said, his expression serious, not kind or warm as John was used to. "He wouldn't have helped you for free."

John licked his lips and looked away before looking back at Sherlock. How can you tell the person you've been with for months that you, somehow, helped to destroy him? Because that's what John did. Jim wanted to play games with Sherlock, John had photographs and he wanted to have fun. When Jim said there was someone he needed to burn, John gladly accepted the deal without knowing the man Jim wanted to kill, to destroy, was no one else but Sherlock Holmes.

However, after telling him this, John watched Sherlock expression softened and in the way back home they hold hands.

"Tell me he never touched you," Sherlock gasped, his hands on the headboard – God, he needed to get hold of something. "Tell me you didn't –"

John leaned forward and licked his earlobe. "I told you."

"John –"

"You've been a very naughty boy, Mister Holmes," John wrapped a hand in the man's hard member and stroked it at the same time he slammed his hips forward. "Don't forget I have a riding crop."

Sherlock felt himself contracting. It was too much. He just couldn't think of how long they had been doing this; John fucking him so hard, touching him, bringing him so close to the climax and then neglecting his hard cock and making him beg.

Twice.

"John."

"What?"

Sherlock slammed his hips back and moaned loudly. "I'm close, _please_."

"I said twice, Sherlock."

"John –"

John loosened his touch on the detective's hard, throbbing member. " _Twice_."

"John, _please_!"

"That's more like it," John chuckled and within a few moments brought his lover to climax.

It wasn't until John felt himself slowly drifting off to sleep when he felt Sherlock's curly head on his chest and his lips on his bare skin.

"You said he wanted to destroy me."

"Hmm."

"You helped him."

Well, he could no longer deny it, right? "Yeah."

"Why?"

Ah. John ran a hand down the man's broad, strong back and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Such an intimate, warm gesture – something he hadn't done in years. John often wondered if it was love what they felt for each other or mere lust, desire.

They had been living together for months. Sherlock's landlady was convinced he was a doctor and that he worked at nights when he actually never left Baker Street until now. His life was in danger and he couldn't afford going out, let alone getting himself killed. Even though Sherlock got Mycroft's word that nothing will happen to him, John had his own doubts.

So that's how John spent all those months locked inside Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes.

The longest John had ever been with a client was a whole day. But that's because the lady, and her husband, had paid him a high sum of money that ensure them long hours of exciting and twisted games.

However, Sherlock was no longer a client. Actually, Sherlock had never paid for all the things they had done.

Blimey. John chuckled because after all those moths together, after all their nights, mornings and afternoons of sex, sex, sex and sex he should be rich by now.

But sex wasn't all. John appreciated the tea, even though he was the one doing it. John liked to wear comfy clothes and not smart suits anymore. He rather liked how Sherlock looked with them. The man had the gift of nature – long legs, long arms. Nature had only given John the gift of being good for sex but short.

Height, obviously.

What John loved was their talks; hearing Sherlock talking, deducing, working… That was something no one ever done before. No client had spoken to him like Sherlock did. No client made actually the effort to please him too.

No client had ever worried if he orgasmed or not.

Well, one did. The young, sweet and nice majesty, obviously.

"You got in the way," John said, sincerely. "I was playing a very exciting game with one of the most powerful families in the world. I was having fun, you know." There was no point denying it anymore. "And you had to stick your nose."

Sherlock chuckled. "Despite your lack of imagination, you were doing it rather well. They were scared."

"Lack of imagination? _Really_?"

"What do you wanted?

"It was a power play."

"They offered you everything."

"It was just a game."

Sherlock snorted. "And it almost got you killed."

"I promised Mrs Hudson I'd help her with her basement," John yawned and turned to his side of the bed. "After all the noise we did I don't think she believes my story of being a GP and taking night shifts."

"She knows."

"Does she?"

"She found your riding crop."

"Ah," John chuckled and closed his blue eyes. "I thought she had seen the marks on your arse."

If only they knew what was coming.

John would have regretted staying with Sherlock. Because no one makes fun of Jim Moriarty.

And no one lives long enough to tell what it's like.


	12. Challenged

"Okay, let me see if I get this straight," John paused to collect his own thoughts. "James Moriarty got into the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Pentonville prison and he walks free?"

On the other line, Sherlock realised what was happening now.

"John, leave Baker Street."

"What?"

"Leave Baker Street now –"

James Moriarty was standing in the doorway or their flat and was pressing his index finger against his lips – gesturing John not to say a word. The Master immediately turned his phone off and welcomed his guest.

"May I?"

"Kettle just boiled."

John gestured Jim to sit on his armchair, but the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen sat on Sherlock's. Moriarty was clearly challenging him.

"Most people knock, you know."

"I'm not most people."

"I know." Jim smiled at him. "Tea?"

"Please."

It was true that kettle had just boiled. It was also true that John had prepared two tea cups, milk and sugar for two: for Sherlock and for himself. But Sherlock's chair was occupied and Sherlock's tea cup was in James Moriarty's hands.

John knew that after this meeting finished and before Sherlock came back, he would have to wash that cup and use disinfectant and clean Sherlock's armchair. Because seriously, James fucking Moriarty was in their flat sitting at Sherlock's armchair and drinking fucking tea from Sherlock's fucking favourite tea cup and damn, John was sure Sherlock could be capable of burning his own armchair and throwing his own tea cup to the bin if it was necessary.

Sherlock was weird.

But James Moriarty was weirder.

The Master then realised he should have never associated himself with that guy. But oh, Jim was fun. Jim knew all the buttons John had to press to have the greatest Sherlock Holmes against the wall.

Playing with Sherlock had been so much fun. John couldn't remember when was the last time he had such great fun before. Ah yes, when he punished, slept, and played with that young thing John knew was going to be his Queen someday.

Playing a power play with the most powerful family in Britain had been fun. But playing with Sherlock was far better.

Playing with James Moriarty was dangerous, though.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Admit you're a tiny bit please with me here..." James Moriarty smiled creepily as he sipped more of John's tea. "and with me back on the streets."

John smiled. "Not a bit actually. We've got," he checked on his watch. "Fifteen minutes give or take before Sherlock comes back."

"Oh! But that's enough time for you and me to discuss some business."

"We have nothing to discuss."

"I don't think so, Johnny boy." Jim sang. "Do you know how I made my way out? Or you're waiting for Sherlock to come home and tell you all about it?"

John showed no emotion. "Got to the jury, of course."

"I got into the Tower of London. You think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

"Cable network."

"Ah. Sherlock's cleverness seems to be contagious."

"I'm not stupid," John sipped his tea. "I know your ways."

Jim smiled proudly. "Of course you know my ways. You know what I like... as you know every person has their pressure point – someone that they want to protect from harm."

"Stay away from Sherlock."

"Or what?"

"I'll kill you."

"Oh, look at you!" Jim laughed as he placed the empty back back to its saucer on the small table next to his armchair. "The knight in the shinning armour! You really think that attitude and the gun you have in your pocket are going to stop me?"

John nodded. "Yes."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, Johnny boy, but I'm not," James leaned forward. "You _owe_ me something."

Ah, that. John should have known it. Of course. You don't make business with James fucking Moriarty and leave services unpaid, no.

Many, many months ago John Watson, professionally known as 'The Master', dialled the number of the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen and asked him for an appointment. Some days afterwards, John was sitting across Jim Moriarty and he was showing him the pictures of himself and that young pretty little thing who, he was sure, in some years was going to be their queen. Playing with the most influential family of Britain was fun, but John knew he was being chased.

John got to the conclusion that strings were being pulled, political advisers were being hired and spies were on his heels. And then, John discovered the detective in the funny hat, Sherlock Holmes, was behind his steps.

It hadn't been difficult for John to know when Sherlock was summoned to The Palace. The Master knew the butler and what he liked after all. But the rest of the story is practically history, John and Sherlock played a game for months and after so long, The Master preferred to forget it all.

But you can't forget your debts.

And John knew he was fucked up.

"I can pay you."

"I don't want money."

"Well, I'm not going to give him to you."

"But that was part of our deal, Johnny boy," Moriarty took a little knife from his pocket an started carving an apple he had taken when he got into the flat. "Think of the thousands of pounds I've spent in this little game: your hiding places... the camera phone... the pictures I could've used and toppled the most powerful family in Britain. All of that in exchange for our favourite detective."

John swallowed. "I can pay you back."

"You know money is not what I want," Jim whispered. "What I want is Sherlock Holmes dead."

"You'll have to kill him over my dead corpse."

"Is it a challenge?"

"Yes."

"Ha! Careful with what you ask of me, _Master_. That's the problem – the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet?" John finished his tea and looked into Jim's dark, hateful eyes and remained silent. "What's the final problem? I did tell you... but did you listen?"

The Master sighed. "Clever, Jim."

"Speaking of clever, have you told your little boyfriend yet?"

"Told him what?"

"About how you stole that key from that MOD man and gave it to me and now I can open every door I want," Jim leaned back on Sherlock's armchair. " I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I _own_ secrecy. Nuclear codes? I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king and honey, you should see me in a _crown_."

John frowned. "You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do."

"And your sweetheart was helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities, terrorist cells. They all want me." Jim ate a slice of apple and smiled at John, seductively. "Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex."

"Why you doing al this?"

"Because I want to solve the final problem. It's gonna start very soon, John. The fall."

"You're sick."

Jim stood up and shrugged. "When you do business with me, you ought to pay the price. You really thought I was going to let you and Sherlock have a normal life? No, sir. I gave you immunity and the price was Sherlock's life. If I don't have him, I'll have you."

John also stood up and looked into Jim's defiant eyes. "Whenever you want, Jimmy."

"I'll take your word, _Master_."

Two minutes after Jim left, Sherlock was back.

John didn't let him get to their room. They fucked in the kitchen and little they cared if the neighbours or their landlady listened. John made Sherlock his again as if there was no tomorrow and promised him they would always be together.

Promises are meant to be kept.

And John was a man who kept his promises.


	13. How many

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any mistake!

Two months later, they had settled again into a new routine and it wasn't very much different from the old one. They continued sharing a bed, they continued watching Bond films - John's favourites - every Friday night and they continued buying supper at the Chinese down the road every now and then. Sherlock continued taking domestic cases following John's advice, and John continued lying to Mrs Hudson about that job he didn't have and had never had, as a doctor who worked night shifts at the hospital.

For instance, for two months, that is, sixty days give or take, John had made love to Sherlock around more than twenty times - give or take.

Sherlock got in a secret relationship with two men at the same time: one was called Ben and the other was Jerry. John introduced them to Sherlock one Friday night. Tired of Chinese, John got himself and Sherlock some ice cream and Sherlock sort of fell in love with it.

Sherlock gained three to five pounds during those two months.

During those two months Sherlock learned what was to lie down every morning next to the person you hold dear. He always woke up before John and spent long minutes, some times hours, staring at the man lying naked next to him.

Sherlock noticed John had lots of moles all down his back and legs. His pale skin was always so smooth, and letting his finger tips travel all over John's skin, Sherlock wondered how many lovers John had had, how many ever got to touch him like he did and how many had the fortune to be touched, caressed, kissed and loved by John Watson.

It wasn't difficult for the detective to make some calculations and get an approximate number of how many lovers John had had. But he rejected the idea. He knew he would be sick if he ever deduced. Not like Sherlock would be sick because John had slept with so many people before, no. Sherlock was going to be sick because he was jealous and he wanted John for himself and himself only. Even though he was the only one, Sherlock did not want to compete against those women and men who had  the pleasure and fortune to meet John's lips, his hands, his body.

"You're staring."

"I can't help it."

John tossed until he was lying on his back. He yawned, stretched his arms and looked at his favourite detective with a smile. "Slept well?"

"You're bisexual."

"Yes."

Sherlock noticed John answered straight away and didn't hesitate. "How can you find women pleasant to be with?"

"Well," John chuckled. "You've never been with one."

"So?"

"There you have it," The Master yawned again and rubbed his blue orbs. "They're not that bad, you know." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you want to try it can be arranged."

Sherlock smiled a bit. "Most kind of you."

"Hey, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"You're the only one."

"I know."

"But you don't trust me. Not _fully_ ," John sat on their bed. He rested his back against the not so comfy headboard and sighed. "You'll never forgive my alliance with Moriarty, will you."

"I'll never forgive you being so close to him," Sherlock kissed him deeply and so violently John thought he might get some bruises afterwards. "You showed him what you can do..." Sherlock pushed John further against the headboard of their bed as their mouths clashed. "You let him in here, our home."

Suddenly, John was trapped and Sherlock Holmes was kissing him so feverishly and so violently he thought he might die. "Sherlock -"

"I can't stand thinking of you and him."

"I told you nothing _ever_ happened between us."

Sherlock looked down at the man he loved. "How many have had you?"

John said nothing.

"It makes me crazy..." Sherlock's hand as on John's most intimate place of his body. "Thinking what you do to me is the same you did to all of them..."

"Sherlock," John cupped the detective's face and kissed him softly, soothingly. "All the others meant nothing to me, you hear me? _Nothing_."

The made love that morning as if there was no tomorrow and because indeed, there was not going to be a 'tomorrow' for them. Had they known it was the last time they were making love, Sherlock would have kissed John more. He would have caressing him more and he would have definitely begged for mercy once, twice, three of maybe four or five times.

Had John known it was the last time they were making love, he would have teased Sherlock more and more. The Master would have practised on the detective all the things he knew about making love.

Had they known it was the last time they were making love, they would have said 'I love you' even more.

* * *

"Since when my dearest brother reads this?" Sherlock asked as he took a look at The Sun. The paper was on Mycroft posh and well polished and loved desk and apparently there was someone - a woman, who knew all about him and was doing a big exposé on Saturday. He was famous, ha!

Mycroft poured himself a drink and sat across his young brother. "Caught my eye."

"Thought cakes only caught your eye." Sherlock beamed a bit at the sight of his brother hiding a piece of cake behind some books piled on his desk. "Apparently she knows I was expelled from school when I was eight." Sherlock said, throwing the paper to the floor and not caring to place it back to its original place. "I'd love to know where she got her information."

Mycroft chuckled. "Someone called Brook. Recognise the name?"

Sherlock shrugged and Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Blame the cocaine."

"That's not why I asked you here."

Suddenly, the politician, such a profession Sherlock hated with all his being, took a pile of folders and started handing them to the detective one by one. Sherlock opened the first folder and found a picture of a man he had never seen before in his life.

"Don't know him?"

"No."

"Never seen his face before?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't store useless information."

"He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you."

"Hmm. Will tell my landlady. She'll like to organise a little party with drinks for the neighbours. Fell free _not_ to come."

Mycroft smiled sarcastically. "Not sure you'll want to." Then, he handed Sherlock another folder. "Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door."

"Great location, though high priced flats."

"Sherlock -"

"Stop spying on me, Mycroft. I'm already a grown man, not a teenager any more -"

Mycroft cut off Sherlock by handing him one last folder. "Dyachenko, Ludmila. Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite." Sherlock raise an eyebrow. _"Four_ top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?" The detective said nothing. "It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it? It's textbook, Sherlock."

"You think it's Moriarty -"

"Moriarty and that sex worker you are fostering," Mycroft finally revealed.

Sherlock's face changed. He was not going to sit there, in his brother's hideous and awful office listening to him insulting John. That was exactly what Mycroft was doing: insulting John.

John could never be Moriarty's ally.

Not again.

"How dare you."

"Tell me why four top trained assassins are living all around you," Mycroft chuckled. "Because it wasn't me who hired them to protect you, Sherlock."

"John would never -"

"How much do you know about him?" Mycroft inquired. "He's for hire, Sherlock. Did you really think a man who has sold his body for most of his life would suddenly stop because of you? _Please_. I thought you clever, dear brother. Look at you now. Domestic bliss suits you: you've put on... what? Ten pounds?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Seven."

"Eight and a half."

"Leave me alone," Sherlock said, standing up and heading to the door. "I'm not a child any more."

Mycroft chuckled. Sherlock could not be a child any more.

But damn, Sherlock was still so naive.

"We both know what's coming, Sherlock."

  
The detective close the door of his brother's office shut and walking back home, he realised it was Friday and surely John had already selected another Bond film for them to watch and had asked Mrs Hudson to go and get them more Ben&Jerry's ice-cream.

But all those thoughts vanished when Sherlock, walking across his street, saw two police cars parked outside and police officers getting inside 221 Baker Street.


	14. A footprint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any mistake.

John was going through the pages of "Grimm's Fairy Tales" when all the police officers, Sally, Lestrade, Anderson and a woman in charge of the children's room moved to the boys' rooms. Two kids were kidnapped and their father, a very important ambassador, asked the police to work with Sherlock Holmes to investigate and find their children.

It was still incredible Sherlock was still working - that people was still hiring him after the whole Moriarty court case and all. Sherlock had given the jury, the judge and the whole country enough proof to show James Moriarty was for hire, that he was the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen and that he should remain in jail for the rest of his life.

Weeks later Jim Moriarty was back on the streets. John wanted to get in touch with that sweet little posh thing he used to see (before Sherlock came along) and ask her what the hell was going on with her grandmother and if she didn't care this man, James Moriarty, had taken her crown and jewels and wore them even.

Still, John was happy Sherlock had jobs. Jobs, cases and mystery kept him calm and happy. And John loved seeing his dear happy.

"The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door..." Lestrade nodded and watched Sherlock moving all about the boy's little space within the boy's room. "Someone approaches the door... someone he doesn't recognise, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon. What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" There were a few books piled on the boy's bedside. "This little boy... this particular little boy who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

John closed the book he was looking at. "He'd leave a sign?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Get Anderson."

Anderson. Ah, John watched Anderson and Sherlock working together and trying to find any signs the little boy might have left. The Master couldn't help but chuckle every time Anderson seemed to make something out of the clues they had found and Sherlock telling him it was very obvious.

Apparently the boy used some oil and managed to leave a trace. They found his and the kidnapper's footprints.

"Tells us nothing after all."

"You're right, Anderson," Sherlock seemed to agree. "nothing."

John wanted to laugh when he saw Anderson's face - somewhat relieved.

"Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace."

Sherlock was all smiles and John could have sworn his favourite detective could even sing and jump and beam like a little boy who has just been allowed to open his presents before Christmas.

"Having fun?"

"Starting to."

"Don't do the smiling."

Sherlock lifted his head and met John's eyes. "Not good?"

"Kidnapped children?" John asked him back. "Would you be smiling if your children had been kidnapped in the place you thought the safest for them?" Sherlock just shrugged. "Just think, Sherlock."

"I don't have to. I won't have children."

"Can't you feel just a little bit of empathy?"

Sherlock frowned. "No. Problem?"

"Yes. They are children, Sherlock. The ambassador asked you to find them, not to laugh at his boy's footprint on the floor!"

"I don't question the way you manage your business, do I, _Master_?" Sherlock whispered to him. "if you don't like it, leave."

John pretended he didn't hear that. "I won't leave you alone."

"I'm not a child."

"Moriarty -"

"I can take care of myself."

* * *

"Alkaline."

"Thank you, John."

" _Molly_."

"Yes."

"Molly," John called her name from the table across Sherlock's. "D'you know where can I get something decent to eat?"

Molly left Sherlock's side and smiled at Sherlock's new friend, a kind man who was a doctor and who seemed to be very nice. "The cafeteria downstairs."

"Not crap food, I take it?" John asked with a grim.

"No. Just avoid the pasta."

"OK. Wanna come? Seems Sherlock can do without us."

To Sherlock's surprise, Molly left the textbooks she was carrying and all the tests tubes she was labelling for him and then, she and John were getting ready to leave.

John took his coat and then, he turned to Sherlock. "Want anything?" And just when Sherlock was about to open his mouth and say something, John cut him off. "It's okay, I know you don't."

"Actually -"

"I know you don't," John cut him off and, as the gentleman he was, he opened the door for Molly to leave first. "Will be right back."

A sandwich could do, of course. John had had worse and a sandwich from a hospital cafeteria wasn't that bad, really. Molly chose pork and they found an empty table for two near the windows, where they could have a pleasant look of the city.

"So... you're Sherlock's boyfriend?"

"No."

John noticed Molly blushed a bit. "Sorry. I'm asking silly questions."

"It's OK," the doctor gave him a reassuring smile. "Sherlock told me you're a friend."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

John swallowed a bit of his sandwich and frowned at her reaction. "What?"

"Nothing," Molly smiled at him shyly. "It's just... I didn't know Sherlock considered me his friend."

"I know what you mean. He can be a dick sometimes!"

The pathologist smiled and ate her food. It was an awkward situation really. She was having lunch with a man she had never seen before and he was all smiles with her. John was not flirting with her, Molly knew it, but there was something about this man, about this particular man that made Molly hesitate a bit.

To begin with, this man, John, had the loveliest eyes Molly had ever seen. He was good looking, yeah, that's true. Molly felt she could fancy him, but he was a bit too short for her.

But still, there was something about this man that made Molly understand Sherlock.

"You look sad," Molly suddenly said, as soon as she saw John had finished his sandwich. "when you think he can't see you."

"Pardon?"

"You look sad when you think Sherlock can't see you. Are you okay?"

John frowned. "You don't know me."

"No, but I can see when someone's sad. You're sad," Molly insisted. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

The Master was caught completely unprepared. Due to his job, he had mastered a wide range of skills that made him a complete and a damn good actor. For instance, he could fake emotions, reactions, tears, laughs, friendliness, sadness, angriness and, of course, orgasms.

However, with this woman, with this particular woman, John never felt the need of pretending - playing someone else. He could just be himself. Sherlock had once told him about Molly. For what John knew, Molly was a young woman in her early thirties who lived alone, had no parents, a few friends, a cat named Toby and once Moriarty used her and played his boyfriend when he was actually going undercover within Bart's.

Sherlock said she was his 'friend' because she merely let him use her lab, she gave him body parts, eyeballs, toes, fingers and because with a smile or maybe a compliment he could get anything he wanted from her. John pitied Molly. It was crystal clear that Molly liked Sherlock. John didn't know whether it was love or not, but this young little thing was completely into Sherlock.

He wanted to tell her he was more than Sherlock's friend but he didn't want to hurt the woman's heart. Many years in the business taught John a woman's heart should never be broken. A woman's heart was a very deep sea of secrets and a complete mystery to men. Yet, he loved women. John came from one, as everyone else, and he respected them. Women were fragile and must be loved, that was his motto. That's what led him to break the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants - separately. The novelist was nuts. The woman was a broken woman who just needed a good shag and god, he gave it to her.

But back to Molly, John wished he could just tell her he was Sherlock's boyfriend. Or maybe, John thought, he could take her to bed and fix her heart. That worked a few times and John knew how to do it. But no. He had told Sherlock he was the only one and it was true. Sherlock was the only one.

"You can see me."

Of course she could see him. She was just there, sitting across him and looking at him with her sad eyes.

"I don't count," Molly gave him a weak smile. "What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me _._ " John opened his mouth to speak, but soon Molly shook her head at herself. "No, I just mean... I mean if there's anything you need... it's fine."

What? "What could I need from you?"

But Molly just gave him a reassuring smile and stood up from her chair. "Nothing. I dunno. You could probably say thank you, actually."

"Thank you?"

"I'll go and help Sherlock before he burns down my lab."

And with that, John was left alone with nothing to say.

* * *

John watched Sherlock's face the moment he exited the room. The little girl screamed and screamed and no one could stop her. 

She feared Sherlock.

But why?

"Well, don’t let it get to you. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do _most_ people." Lestrade said, trying to cheer Sherlock up. "Come on."

John was walking behind Sherlock when Sally started questioning the whole thing. "Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It’s really amazing."

"Thank you."

"Unbelievable."

"What d'you want?" John asked, exasperatedly. This made Lestrade and Sherlock turn.  


Sally chuckled. "A _footprint_. He found those kids using _only_ a footprint. He finds them and then the little girl screams."

The three men said nothing.

"CSI Baker Street," Sally smiled. 

John placed a hand in the small of Sherlock's back and led the way outside. They said nothing on their way outside. Several policemen watched them leaving and several stopped doing their tasks and watched the men, the consulting detective and that guy he was now hanging with - that man people believed was his lover. 

"Don't listen to her. She's just jealous." Sherlock remained silent. "Sherlock -"

"She's right."

"What?"

"This is my cab." Sherlock got into the cab that had pulled near him. "You get the next one."

"Why?"

"You're _distracting_ me."  


Inside the cab, Sherlock remembered Mycroft's words. Moriarty was going to strike any time soon. 

But not only Moriarty.

Moriarty and John.

John could never... And then, there he was on the screen.

Jim Moriarty was holding what seemed to be a colourful book - a children's book, and he was smiling at him.

_ "Hullo. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot..." _


	15. A fraud

"And then the girl screams her head off when she sees him... a man she has never seen before - unless she _had_ seen him before."

No. It couldn't be. No, no, and no. Sherlock Holmes was a good man. Lestrade knew it. Greg Lestrade was so sure of it he knew he would put his hand in the fire because he was so sure Sherlock Holmes was a good detective.

"What's your point?"

"You know what my point is," Sally looked into Greg's eyes. "You just don't wanna think about it."

Greg shook his head. "You're not _seriously_ suggesting he's involved, are you?"

"Yes!"

Anderson stepped into the discussion. "We have to entertain the possibility."

"He got it all from a footprint. A _footprint_ , Greg," Sally insisted. "And that girl's just said he was the one who took her and her brother. He's been doing it all along."

DI Greg Lestrade rubbed his forehead, worriedly. There had to be a mistake. Greg knew Sherlock. They were friends. Greg had seen the worst of Sherlock and he was quite sure he could never be a fraud.

Greg had known Sherlock since he was a young thing of twenty something, high on cocaine and other substances too. Lestrade had also seen Sherlock getting clean. Sherlock had given him a place to stay when his wife left. Greg was there and he had seen Sherlock suffering for John Watson, The Master, that man Greg heard had made many men and women lose their hearts for him.

Then, why was it then that... why did the girl scream?

Why was it that everything pointed at Sherlock?

* * *

John followed Sherlock closely. The Master knew Moriarty's ways, of course. John was quite sure Moriarty would strike again soon. Very deep inside, John knew tonight was _the night_. Tonight was the night when many things would come out. Tonight someone was going to let the cat out of the bag and God, John wished he could stop it.

The Master pressed the phone to his ear and listened to his man's report. There were three of the four men he had hired near Baker Street. No signs of Moriarty yet. Then, there he saw them: Sherlock getting out of the cab and Moriarty on the wheel.

James Fucking Moriarty was driving the cab.

Once it stopped, John saw there he saw the bus coming.

"Ran after him, now!"

Sulejmani saved Sherlock from the bus. But once Sherlock was safe, and once the bus passed hitting no one, someone shot at John's man, at Sulejmani. The Master immediately left the cab he was in and ran to his lover. Sherlock was not hurt, there was a few bruises on his hands, but Sulejmani, who was one of John's men, died.

But that was the price John Watson had to pay to keep his beloved safe.

"That... it's him. It's him. Sulejmani or something." Sherlock said as he looked nervously at the pool of blood on the pavement. "Mycroft showed me his file. Albanian gangster. Two doors down from us."

"What?"

John was aware Mycroft had investigated all their neighbours, but still, he pretended to be surprised. Pretentiousness never worked with Sherlock Holmes. You could never pretend something and get away with it when Sherlock bloody Holmes could tell your entire life story by just looking the way you tie your shoelaces, or worse, when he already knows every patch of your skin and had made love to you countless times.

Still, John Watson, the doctor, soldier, the master of sex, the only one who could get Sherlock Holmes to beg pretended he didn't know he had trained assassins living next door and Sherlock bought it. Sherlock Holmes had no suspicions.

"He died because I shook his hand."

"What d'you mean?"

The detective didn't know what to say. "He saved my life but he couldn't touch me. Why?"

John had ordered Sulejmani to keep an eye on Sherlock. He had ordered the assassin to jump and keep Sherlock off the street because a bus was about to kill him. But John had never said Sulejmani he could not touch Sherlock, therefore, Moriarty was closer than he had initially thought he was.

Moriarty was trying to keep Sherlock alive, of course.

Running back to Baker Street, John took Sherlock's hand and both laced their fingers. It was the first time they were ever holding hands outside their flat - and showing the whole world they were a couple, that they were together.

Although it was late, there was no one in the streets, and the ones walking around weren't paying any attention to them, they held hands proudly, as if showing everyone they were two against the rest of the world.

Two against the world.

And nothing, not even Moriarty, was going to tear them apart.

Nothing.

Or that's what both thought.

But when they arrived, Sherlock found a camera and John realised they had always been watched. It didn't bother them, really. They mostly had sex in Sherlock's room after all. But what really troubled John was Greg's visit.

After the whole incident with the camera phone, the photographs of John with a member of the royal family and so on, Greg and John didn't exactly become friends, but they had an good relationship. John liked Greg, and he regarded him as one of Sherlock's few friends. John knew they could trust Greg, of course.

But tonight... tonight John realised something was troubling Greg and that something had to do with Sherlock.

"One photograph – that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch. This is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play. Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."

Of course. John wanted to smile when he really got it. Moriarty had planted the idea in everyone's minds. Ha. He should have known it.

Moriarty was damn too clever.

But suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock stopped working on their computers and fixed his piercing eyes on him. "They'll be deciding."

"Deciding?"

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?"

"You should know it," Sherlock said, fixing his eyes on his computer. "Standard procedure."

John shook his head. "Should have gone with him. People will think -"

"I don't care what people think."

"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."

"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong."

Ah. John had really missed their fights. He would question their relationship if there wasn't a daily dose of fights, a sulky Sherlock and some make up sex later.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're -"

And that was it. That was the moment Sherlock lifted his head and looked into his eyes and John feared he might have deduced all that he needed to know.

For one or two seconds before Sherlock said anything, John felt his heart pounding and fear invaded his body. He hadn't felt this fear since he almost got himself killed by those Afghans in the Middle East.

John feared Sherlock's eyes.

"That I am what?"

Don't say it. "A fraud."

"You're worried they are right."

"No."

"No?" Sherlock asked as he leaned back on his chair. "You've been playing a different character today."

John frowned. "What?"

"Asking me not to laugh at the children's kidnapping... then defending me in front of Sally. Something's bothering you."

"Of course something's bothering me. You know what's going on. Moriarty wants to make you look like a fraud and -"

"And you're helping him."

"What?"

"You have doubts."

"I know you're for real."

Sherlock shook his head. "A hundred percent?"

And then, for the last time that night, John was looking at Sherlock with sincere eyes. "I know what you like and all the buttons I have to press to make you beg," Sherlock gave him a very little smile. "And well, nobody could fake being such an annoying _dick_ all the time."


	16. Richard Brook

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

The detective had really missed that cold sensation of the handcuffs around his wrists. Really. Long before John Watson came along and tied him to his own bed, Sherlock had felt that cold sensation of the metal against his skin, brushing, almost hurting, almost leaving marks.

Of course they were taking him. The girl screamed her head off, the little brother said it was him apparently, Donovan the envious bitch had to start planting those doubts in everyone's head and now they were taking him.

The whole police team was queuing up to slap him. No, they were not slapping him. They were all looking at him, beaming, excited to finally arrest him and Sherlock, for a moment, regretted treating them as he had always done. Like shit. Oh.

"He's not resisting!" John almost shouted, angrily. "Why are you handcuffing him, he's not resisting!"

"It's all right, John."

"This is not all right! This is fucking ridiculous!"

Lestrade commanded the officer to take the detective downstairs and the last thing Sherlock saw was John angrily bellowing and telling everyone this was ridiculous, that they were making a mistake, that he was not the kidnapper, that he had been with him all the time, that he was innocent, that they had no right, that they were taking the wrong man and all that. Really. John could be really persuasive, very, if he wanted to, but Lestrade, his whole team and all the King's horses would never set him free.

Ah, John. Sherlock beamed a bit, in the darkness of the stairs, while all the police officers watched him descend the stairs, handcuffed.

John Watson, The Master, was begging Lestrade not to take him. Ah. Of course. John.

"Do not interfere or I shall arrest you too," Greg told John, sternly. "I mean it. I have proofs enough to take you too."

"You won't dare."

Greg snorted. "Excuse me?"

"I have to move a finger to get you out of the force forever, Lestrade." John almost whispered, so no one could hear them. "I know what every single one of your superiors like. I suggest you to choose your wars more wisely."

"And I suggest you to keep the fuck off and leave Sherlock alone. You're destroying him."

"Says who?"

"His friend," replied Greg. "All of this started when he met you. How _convenient_."

Greg turned and left. Every single police officer left - but Donovan.

Donovan. That bitch Sherlock hated and therefore, John hated too. Donovan, who once tried to ask Sherlock out - according to the detective. Donovan, that envious bitch who was looking for a promotion and was capable of doing anything to get it. Of course. John knew people like her. John knew, by experience, that women like Sally Bitch Donovan were not to be trusted and not even a very good shag could change her. Not like John was willing to any way.

"You done?"

"So you're the Freak's boyfriend."

"I'm not his boyfriend."

"Of course you are. You think we didn't know?" Donovan smiled a bit. "I bet he did all of this to impress you. Now ask yourself what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?"

"Leave."

A fat man, who apparently was Donovan, Lestrade and everyone's superior appeared, said Sherlock was a weirdo, and apparently thought he could get away with it.

John knew what that fat man liked. Not like John had slept with him, no. But he was the sort of bloke who liked it rough. Not men, no. Women.

He was an idiot.

Two minutes later John was handcuffed and taken downstairs with Sherlock.

"Joining me?"

"Yeah. Thought you may want some company tonight. They'll jail us together, hopefully."

Sherlock looked at him. "Didn't you know what he liked?" He asked, talking about the Chief Superintendant.

"I didn't sleep with every single member of the top of the NSY."

"Didn't you?"

"Just a few," John smirked a bit. Then, he noticed Sherlock was dully staring at the inside of one of the police cars. "So, what's the plan now?"

"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape."

John looked confused. "What?"

And then, Sherlock had a gun, people started screaming, police officers were on his knees (how convenient), their neighbours were shouting and screaming and the Sherlock and John held hands and ran to their end.

There was no way John, being several inches shorter than Sherlock, could ran as fast as him. But he did it. John would never know how he did it, but he did it. They ran, the police lost them, and then, they were together in the dark allies of the streets panting and sweating and thinking where they could possibly go.

"Mycroft could help."

"A big family reconciliation? Now's not really the moment -" Sherlock turned and spotted a man peering around the corner. "We're being followed."

"What?"

"Is not the police... it's one of our neighbours."

Sherlock dragged John and then he started running.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to jump in front of that bus."

"What?"

They jumped, the man following them jumped too, they ended up, the three of them, lying on the pavement. They were breathless but still John could recognise the man. It was one of the killers he had hired to keep an eye on Sherlock. Apparently the police warned them and he totally forgot about them.

Now John had one of the killers he had hired in front of him and he hadn't given him any instructions.

"Tell me what you want from me." Sherlock demanded the killer, but when he got no answers, he grabbed him by the collar of his coat and shook him slightly. "Tell me!"

From behind Sherlock, John shook his head.

"Moriarty." The Russian killer said.

"He sent you?"

And then, three gunshots rang out, the killer fell to the floor dead, and Sherlock was now clueless.

"We need to get back into the flat and search."

John frowned. "Wait - why?"

"Moriarty left something there... a code."

"The police is there."

Sherlock bit his lip and suddenly remembered. "We need to get Rich Brook."

"Who is he?"

* * *

Kitty Riley, another bitch like Donovan who needed a good shag and apparently was getting it from Moriarty.

"He hired me."

"What?"

"Mr Watson, please Master, please tell him!"

Sherlock's eyes were on John's, who was angrier than ever. According to Moriarty he was not Moriarty but Rich Brook, a storyteller featured on CBBC who was famous for his storytelling and all the fucking children in Britain loved him and then Kitty was showing Sherlock clippings from different newspapers featuring this Rich Brook and then Sherlock doubted.

John saw that. The doubt.

How could he.

"You had snipers on me and Lestrade - you're a criminal!"

"He hired me," Moriarty-Rich Brook almost begged to be believed. "Master Watson, please tell him, please, Master, please, please!"

And then, when John was about to punch him the rat escaped, Kitty told Sherlock it was the end and then both men were standing in the middle of the street, with no clue of what to do, let alone, what could happen next.

"He was lying."

"Hmm."

"Sherlock..."

"I need to think."

"No, you're not going anywhere," John said, firmly, using that commanding, straight voice he only reserved for their bed moments. "Sherlock -"

The detective escaped from John's reach and walked away.

And there was only one place he could go.

And there was one person John knew he had to see if he wanted Sherlock to be safe.


	17. Discovered

John knew where to look and with whom he had to talk to if he wanted to know what was happening next. Not like he didn't know, because he knew. He knew what Moriarty liked, who belonged to his spiderweb, and all the strings he could pull and the consequences.

The Master should have known better the moment he called Jim Moriarty. One day he was having fun with that young little thing he knew was going to be England's new queen soon, and the following morning he had pictures and he wanted to play a game and oh, and the consulting criminal James Moriarty was there.

Playing a game with Britain's most powerful family was funny. Having pictures to topple the most important family in the whole country was funny. Playing with Sherlock Holmes, the detective in the funny hat was funny.

But falling in love with Sherlock wasn't.

Not when John had promised Moriarty Sherlock's head.

Dead or alive. Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead or alive and John had made a promise.

_Oh, Jim, I wanna have some fun. I'll give you whatever you want. Oh, Sherlock Holmes? The detective in the funny hat? Should be easy. Brainy is the new sexy. Do you want him dead or alive?_

They agreed John was going to play a game. The pictures were going to be Jim's. Sherlock's virginity was going to be John's. Then John was going to disappear, and Moriarty was going to be free to do with Sherlock as he pleased. Skin him and make some shoes with his skin? Just kill him? Make him suffer? Who bloody knows what Jim wanted to do with Sherlock.

But John had to stay, hide in Baker Street, then become Sherlock's assistant and lover and boyfriend and The Master knew he was fucked up.

No matter how many influential men and women he knew (and what they liked), John knew there was no escape really.

Now he would have to face the consequences of his own actions.

"She's really done her homework, Miss Riley." John Watson kept going through Mycroft's papers. "Things that only someone close to Sherlock could know. Sherlock only trust you and me. And he didn't get this stuff from me."

Oh.

"I suppose someone like you, with your skills, found the security of this place disappointing."

John chuckled. "Boring, actually. But I'm not here to discuss your security system."

"Of course."

"Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

Ha. This man, this sex worker Sherlock decided to foster (in exchange of what? Sex?) was sitting on his desk, literally on his very expensive and posh and well polished desk demanding, asking him why he had collaborated with Moriarty, when he had done much more than that.

"Telling Moriarty Sherlock was expelled from school is not as harmful as lying to him, isn't it?"

John Watson crossed his legs and threw the files over Mycroft's lap. The older Holmes didn't even bother picking them up. He merely kept his gaze on The Master. He was definitely not going to fall as many of his colleagues did. No matter what John Watson was capable of doing, because Mycroft had heard stories, he was not going to fall for it.

Many of his colleagues had been embarrassed, exposed, and had thrown dirt to their own names. Many had shamed their own families, names, titles. A very young thing, a female person, the one they were training and preparing to one day become their queen, slept with John Watson and was very close to lose her throne, her crown, and almost her country.

John Watson was a powerful man. But his sexual tactics were not his only weapons.

The Master had brains. He knew people, secrets. John knew how to lie.

And Sherlock fell for him.

"Do you really think I don't know who you are, Master?" Mycroft smiled. "A sex worker who has sold his body most of his life. At the beginning they used you and they abused you. But you met someone important, someone who treated you like a hurt child. My, shall I go on?"

John uncrossed his legs, and crossed them again. He twisted his thin lips, and tilted his head. A power play? Was Mycroft Holmes really trying to play a power play with him? Because as he had told Greg Lestrade, Mycroft should have chosen his wars more wisely.

"My past doesn't embarrass me."

"And you trained yourself. You improved your, shall we call them skills?" Mycroft smiled even more. "You became famous among important people. That's how you learned what they liked. But you became bored. Knowing what people like to do in bed was not enough, was it? Of course not. You started taking advantage of your clients."

John licked his lips seductively. "Of course. You need to do a bit of a dirty job once in a while if you wanna climb the ladder."

"Taking pictures and recording your clients when they showed off and babbled about their power?"

"I needed to survive."

"And now, Master?" Mycroft challenged John. "Telling lies won't help you this time."

John frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"Do you really think Sherlock is that stupid? He knows you hired those Albanian hitmen. He is also acquainted with your... meetings with James Moriarty." The Master froze. "The cat has been let out of the bag long time ago, Master Watson. Because now Sherlock knows you have not only been providing Moriarty with very important information, but also, that you've promised him as an exchange of favours."

"That was before. I'm not going to give him."

"My brother is not yours to give." Mycroft relaxed on his chair, but fixed his green eyes on the sexual worker his little brother, the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes decided to foster. "You are going to solve Moriarty's final problem. And then... then you're going to disappear."

The Master said no word. Suddenly, he knew he was beaten.

Mycroft Bloody Holmes had beaten him.

"You're going to regret this, Mycroft."


	18. Abused

Now everything made complete sense. He should have known it. Those nights when he woke up in the middle of the night and John was not by his side... John said he had matters to see to. He said he was not in the business any more, but that he had to see to some things. He said you could not just close down and pretend that you have never existed, or that you have never sold your body to the most important people in your country.

John had told him stories, some of them involving important men and women. He told Sherlock all the secrets he knew. Or that's what he told the detective. But Sherlock knew John was keeping him in the dark about certain... aspect of his business.

It was quite... all right. Sherlock knew John had met far more people and surely had done more things that the ones he gave away.

But Sherlock accepted this and pretended not to be aware of the fact that John was not being completely honest with him.

So when he questioned those nights when John seemed to disappear, something changed. John said there where matters he ought to take care of. And the following night, when they had tea before going to bed, and when there were no plans of having sex, Sherlock drank the tea John had prepared for him knowing there were sedatives.

Every night John needed to get out of Baker Street without Sherlock knowing, he put sedatives on his tea. And the detective knew it. Of course. He was not stupid. And he drank the tea, and even went to bed so John wouldn't need to carry him to their room.

The following morning he woke up and there was John, safe and sound sleeping next to him, and Sherlock felt the faint smell of soap a recent shower had left. Somehow John tried to conceal it, and Sherlock saw it.

No matter how much Sherlock looked, he could not see any trace left on John's body.

Of course.

Because John Watson was The Master of secrecy and Mr Sex.

So the moment John entered the lab, Sherlock knew it all.

"When we first met, you told me a disguise is always a self-portrait."

John chuckled. "And what do you make of mine, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock's eyes scanned John's figure. Expensive suit. Tailored. Made by an important fashion designer. Brand new, polished shoes. New tie and shirt. No. The tie was not new. It had a previous owner.

Sherlock knew that tie.

Moriarty's. Westwood.

"You always said your skin was your battle dress," Sherlock got up from the floor and leaned on the counter of the lab. Relaxed. "But it isn't."

"Go on. Impress a man like me."

Sherlock was being challenged by the man he thought loved him. Oh, how stupid he had been. He had been lied to the face. The great Sherlock Holmes, the man who could even outlive God so he could have the last word had been lied to, deceived, and even mocked by John Watson. The Master of secrecy. Mr Sex.

"This suit. This particular suit... you've worn it before."

"What for?"

"To impress someone."

"Who?"

"The men you needed to possess."

"And why is that?"

"Because you wanted their secrets."

"Because...?"

"Because you needed to survive."

"Close, but no."

"No. You didn't need... you were running away from someone."

John smiled a bit. "Can you guess who is it?"

"I do not guess."

"Don't you?"

"The first man... the one who got you into this. He bought you the first suit. He opened you the doors of high-class London."

"He sold me," John finally said. "I had previous owners. You weren't the first, Mr Holmes."

That was mean.

"Of course."

"As I told the big brother. Sometimes, you need to do a bit of a dirty job here and there. Climb the ladder. I got to the princess of England."

"You're ambitious."

"Aren't you, Mr Holmes?" John smiled his seductive smile. The one he knew Sherlock liked. "And you've rejected that knighthood how many times? Two?"

"Three."

"Two. Remember I know what the princess likes."

"And what Moriarty likes."

"Of course. Oh you really thought Jimmy and I never had fun? My," John laughed. "Everything has a price. How do you think I managed to get your attention?"

Sherlock curled his lips upwards. Of course. John was clever. Not mundane. All those conversations they had. John had deceived him. And he did it magnificently.

He was far too clever.

Too clever that it hurt.

"And what's the price fixed on my head?"

John sighed inwards. The façade wouldn't last too much. Better finish with this.

"My freedom."

"Not only your freedom. But the secrets you own. Because you know things. Dangerous things." Sherlock walked three steps forwards and now they were inches apart. John could practically feel Sherlock's magnificent and sweet perfume. The one he got for him last Christmas. "You thought that taking my virginity would be easy. And it was. But you thought you could give me to him."

"And I will."

"You won't. Sentiment is a chemical defect, Master. You should know that. You fell in love with the man who taught you everything you know. With the man who used you. He abused you and reduced you to nothing, but you loved him. Stockholm syndrome. You suffer from PSTD not because of the things you saw in Afghanistan, but for the things this man did to you. For all you had to endure."

Tears rolled John's cheeks and for the first time in his life, Sherlock saw The Master cry.

Silent crying.

"You made your clients believe they liked to be hurt when having sex. But you were taking revenge. On that man. You saw him on every single client you had."

John turned and looked at the little glass on the door. He saw himself crying. And he also met Sherlock's cold gaze again.

"And then you detached yourself from your clients. You never saw them more than once. You were afraid. You thought you'd never make the same mistake again. But you did."

"You think I won't give you to Jim?" John said, still facing the door.

Sherlock looked at the glass. And there, he tried to find the eyes of the man he loved. But he couldn't.

"I don't think. I _know_ it. You love me."

"Tell me. Would someone who loves you do this?"

John turned and extended his arm.

He was holding a gun.

His finger was on the trigger and Sherlock immediately saw the lack of hesitation on The Master's eyes. The gun was fully loaded. He was going to fire.

"John. I take the case."

"What case?"

"Yours. You should have come to me."

"For every time I slept with him, he promised me you'd be safe." John's finger was still on the trigger. And soon Sherlock felt his medical eyes on him. Calculating. "I'm sorry."

And then, he fired.

It's never like in the movies. Blood doesn't flow like in any of those stupid films John made him watch. Sherlock didn't scream like those hideous actors.

He merely looked down and then his eyes met John's.

"The bullet is still inside. If you fall forwards you're going to die of blood loss."

Nothing made sense. Sherlock watched John calling someone. An ambulance maybe. And then, sending a text.

"Fall backwards."

The detective did as he was told. John rushed next to him and caressed his dark curls.

"Now you're going to go through shock. You're going to feel a lot of pain." The doctor pressed a kiss to his lips. "I'm sorry."

"John."

"Whatever happens, don't die. You hear me?"

"John."

And then he screamed. There was the pain. He was going through shock.

The movies are all lies.

But this shot was not meant to kill him.

It was surgery.

"I'm going to solve the final problem. You're gonna be okay."

He heard John's phone ringing. The Master read the text and then took a quick look at his watch.

"Tell Mycroft his country is safe now." John kissed him and caressed his dark curls one more time. "I love you, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

And then, he was gone.

Doctors rushed in.

They put him on a stretcher and one said they needed to go straight to surgery, call the doctors and tell them to scrub in and get everything ready.

And then, he died.


	19. Staying Alive

_"Staying alive, staying alive..."_

Moriarty smiled as soon as he saw The Master on the rooftop. "Ah, Master. Here we are at least. You and me. The final problem."

"Isn't it..." John took a couple of steps forwards and smiled at the sight of his tie. Moriarty was using the tie they used some nights before when they fucked. "isn't it a bit boring?"

"Staying alive?"

John shrugged. "It's just _staying_."

"My, how alike we are."

"And yet, look where we are. Bart's rooftop? I'm disappointed in you, Jimmy."

Moriarty stood from where he had been, sitting on the edge, waiting for John to finally say goodbye. The one he expected was Sherlock, but apparently The Master ended him.

Did he?

"All my life I've been searching for distractions. You and Sherlock were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you. Both."

John tilted his head, and smiled. Little he cared, really. Because, after all, this was the end, wasn't it?

James Moriarty gave John his best smile. "And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. Because you've killed your sex toy and it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them."

"Am I _that_ ordinary, Jim?"

"That shot was just surgery."

"Ha," John laughed. "He won't make it. He's in his late thirties and has been a drug addict for what? Fifteen years? Probably more. He won't survive."

The Consulting Criminal raised an eyebrow. "Good ol' doctor Watson."

* * *

_Being shot is one thing._

_Dying is quite another._

_Damn John and all those stupid films he had made him watch. Bond. James Bond. How could he like them where they were full of mistakes? He had never been there, but Sherlock could bet his own life the MI6 was nothing like they showed it on those films._

_There is no heaven._

_Or hell._

_There are doors. Countless doors. Sherlock opens the first to his left, and there he finds Redbeard. Good old Redbeard. He had to be put to sleep. Mummy said he was too ill, that he was too old, and that he was suffering. The Detective finds himself inside the room too. He's ten years old. He's wearing that green sweater he liked. Mummy is there and she's crying with him. Daddy is there, and behind is the vet. He's holding something. They are putting Redbeard to sleep. And his little self is crying._

_Sherlock leaves, because it's too much to endure._

_And on the next door, he finds Mycroft._

_His brother is not forty, but he's a teenager. No. Almost an adult. He's sitting behind a big desk and there is an old computer and books._

_Across his brother, there's Sherlock. His twelve-year old self is crying._

_"You are a stupid little boy."_

_"I'm not stupid."_

_"And why can't you solve The Final Problem?"_

* * *

"Did you get it?"

"Richard Brook," John remembered his German client. Quite a good woman, she was. "Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach. The case that made Sherlock's name."

Jim smiled and glanced at John's hands. He was drumming with his fingers. "Ah, you got that too."

"You used the code I got from the MOD man to get into the system."

"And...?"

"You created Richard Brook and erased James Moriarty."

"What for?"

"To make Sherlock look like a fool."

"He's dying in some operating room now. Already a fool, don't you think?"

John knew there was something he was missing. He knew Jim's ways. He had slept with that man enough times to know what he likes, how he liked it, and how he managed his criminal spiderweb, because if Sherlock could tell your life story by just looking at the way you tie your shoelaces, John could tell many things about you by just sleeping with you. Or just knowing what you like.

This time he could not read James Bloody Moriarty.

"I... I don't understand."

"You should get that on a T-shirt, Johnny-boy." Jim smiled. "Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."

"I still don't understand."

"And that's the back of the T-shirt." The Consulting Criminal let out a long sigh, and shook his head emphatically. "You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed."

John shook his head. This was not in the plans. "But the code -"

"I'm disappointed in you, ordinary John Watson!"

"The MOD man said -"

"That code is fucking obsolete. You sucked him off for _free_ , Master," Jim shouted. "Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Uh? Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants. You and that sex-toy want everything to be clever... that's your weakness."

John froze. He hated miscalculations.

And it seemed there was no way out.

"What do you want?" He licked his lips before continuing. "I... I killed Sherlock. What else do you want?"

"Finish the game. You know way too much, Master. And I don't want that clever head of yours to be Mycroft's." Jim smiled and looked down. "Tall, isn't it. Nice way to do it."

"Do what?"

"You know what. Now the whole world will know. 'Sherlock Holmes killed by rent boy'. 'Rent boy commits suicide'. Nasty headlines, right, Master?"

* * *

_"It's... it's John."_

_"What did John do?"_

_"He shot me," little Sherlock answered. "He killed me."_

_Mycroft laughed. "You're not dead. Wake up!"_

_"I can't!"_

_"Stupid little boy, wake up!"_

_"I CAN'T! I CAN'T, MYCROFT! I'M DEAD!"_

_"You're not even trying. Mummy will cry. Daddy will cry. I am going to cry too. Buckets and buckets. What did John ask you?"_

_Little Sherlock sobbed heavily. "He asked... he asked me not to die."_

_"Then don't die!"_

Most of the doctors were asking the nurses to clean all and tell the family the patient had died.

But soon the machines confirmed the impossible.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

* * *

"I can still prove you're a criminal. I know some people in the media," John started to recall all the contacts he had around the country. He knew what some business men in the media liked. He also knew some judges, the princess. He could still survive and keep Sherlock from anything. "Some judges, some MI6 heads. I can prove the code exists. And bring back James Moriarty."

James pulled a face. "Oh, kill yourself will you. It's far more easy. Mmm, just thinking of it makes me hard."

"You're insane."

"You're just getting that now? After months fucking me behind Sherlock's back?"

"I have nothing to lose. I know who to call to get you in jail."

"Oh, really?" James smiled. "Well, call whoever you like. But let me tell you a little secret. Your friends will die if you don't."

"I don't have friends."

"But Sherlock does."

John froze.

"And that shot was surgery. You didn't kill him and he's not dead."

"Mycroft."

"Everyone."

"Greg."

"Everyone."

"Mrs Hudson."

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

Jim was right. He was bloody right. Because Sherlock was not dead, John knew it. He was probably being all patched up.

Sherlock could live without him. Of course. John had merely been a chapter in his life. Someone who showed him sex was good. He also taught his favourite detective some techniques. Now Sherlock knew what he liked.

The Detective in the funny hat, Sherlock Holmes, proved him brainy was definitely the new sexy, and that he could be a great student.

But wait.

John tried to go back and remember what Jim said.

_Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it._

The Master smiled. Then, he laughed. He laughed a very healthy laugh and suddenly, he knew he could solve it. There was the answer. The killers could be called off. Of course. That should be Moran. Sebby must be there, maybe following Mycroft closely, wherever he could be, aiming at him, prepared to do whatever Jimmy said.

"The killers _can_ be called off."

Jim shook his head. "You really think you can make me do that? Dear me, Master. Dear me."

"Yes. So do you."

"John, not even you, the Holmes brothers, and all the king's horses can't make me do a thing I don't want to."

"Yes. But I'm not Sherlock, or Mycroft. Remember?" John whispered for Jim to hear. His blue eyes were dark. His voice was sombre. "I'm you, James. I'm just like you are... I'm prepared to burn... prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

James Moriarty took two steps back and shook his head in disbelief. "Nah. You talk big. You're ordinary. You _are_ ordinary. You fell in love with him."

"There is nothing in this world that I would not do to keep Sherlock safe."

"Well..." Jim smiled and took a gun from the back of his trousers. "Good luck with that."

Jim blew his brains out.

James Fucking Moriarty blew his brains out.

And there he was, lying on the floor, dead. His eyes were open.

And he was fucking smiling.

Now John knew he was really fucked up.

Because if Moriarty's people didn't see him jump, everyone Sherlock held most dear was going to die.

Better do it quickly then.

* * *

_"They'll see you."_

_John smiled. Ah, he loved that smile. They were in the sitting room. Sherlock was going through his emails. There were some interesting cases. But most of them required legwork and he cold not bear leave John alone in the flat, when some weeks ago he had been chased by the British and the American government._

_And there was John, looking through the windows, hiding himself behind the curtains, smiling every time he saw little children going back to their homes after school._

_"I'm just watching your little neighbours coming back from school."_

_Sherlock rolled his grey eyes._

_"How were you and your brother as a kids?"_

_The detective remained silent._

_"Oh. I see. Now we are getting somewhere."_

_"Why do you care about Mycroft?" Sherlock closed his computer. "He was fat. Had acne. Broke my action men."_

_John smiled widely as he sat across Sherlock, on what had become his armchair. "He doesn't look like the type. I bet it was you who nicked all his Smurfs."_

_"He read stories to me. The East Wind."_

_"What was it about?"_

_"Deleted it."_

_The Master left his seat, and crawled on the floor, until he was on his knees, between Sherlock's long legs. The detective caressed John's left cheek and the man leaned to his touch._

_Sherlock felt something growing inside every time they were like this. Every time John was on his knees for him, not doing anything sexual, but crawling on the floor, leaning to his touch, almost like a dog. Every time the detective felt those blue eyes on him, he felt like melting. Almost as if they were alone in the world, and no one could possibly tear them apart._

_Because the greatest Sherlock Holmes was head over heels in love with The Master John Watson, a sexual worker, a man for hire._

_He often wondered what his parents would say if they ever knew who he was living with. They had already given up hopes of having a daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Once they said he could bring home whoever he liked. Whoever he wanted. Whoever he loved._

_The detective knew that if he ever took John to his home, his parents would adore him._

Now he could barely open his eyes or articulate a word. Multiple scenes of them together came back constantly, as TV advertisings.

John.

Where was John?

* * *

The Master took one last look at the city he loved with all his heart. London. It had to be the capital of the world.

London. His London. The city that had given him everything.

Then, he opened his arms, closed his eyes, and jumped.

Just like that.

And then, his body hit the floor. There was a pool of blood and people screaming. Doctors taking a break rushed to him, ordered a stretcher, some took his pulse and said he was dead.

And he was.


	20. JW

"He was a good man," Mrs Hudson linked her arm with her tenant's. "Always helping me with the basement and the pipes."

Sherlock remained silent. And after minutes of walking in the cemetery, in silence, they found it.

Ah, there they were. Facing a black stone, with two initials engraved on it.

Just initials.

_JW._

John Watson.

That was all.

There were no inscriptions, no dates, nothing. Sherlock knew John was around his mid forties, but he was not certain when was born.

John had been a doctor, a soldier, a high class escort. Not a 'rent boy', as the press put it. Some even said nasty things. It was true John sold his body for money, but he was not the whore the press assured he had been. Sherlock let them talk. He had been chased and bullied by the press too. They said Sherlock had lost all his money on John. Some other said they got married, Sherlock assigned him as his heir, and that John tried to kill him and take his money.

Sherlock had no money really.

Later they even went after mummy and daddy. And not even Mycroft's security men could keep them away from their little house in the countryside. His parents knew about him and John through the TV, the newspapers, the gossip magazines.

Mummy cried and said John deserved to be dead. She believed whoever put a bullet on her boy ought to be dead.

And John was.

Eventually Sherlock told Mrs Hudson who John Watson had been. She didn't ask questions, but closely followed his tale. He told her all about John's business, all he had to endure since he was a mere young boy, in his late teens, the man who used him, abused him, reduced him to nothing. Then, John joined the army as he had no one in the world, was starving, and didn't have a proper place to live.

The army gave him a profession. And John Watson became Dr John Watson. But soon John didn't find himself patching up soldiers, but using guns and fighting for his life. And then, the army invalided him back home the moment a bullet hit his shoulder and his good hand, his doctor's hand, would not stop trembling.

John had been a surgeon and now he could barely hold a cup.

That's the moment when living again in London became difficult, and a man adopted him. He bought John the first of the many suits John would own the following years. Soon John shook hands with important people. Very important people. Politicians, business men, singers, judges, showbiz men and women, everyone.

And that's how the ex army doctor became one of London's most important male escorts.

For many years John became what everyone wanted. And John Watson became _The Master_.

The Master knew when you were beaten. And the little flat where he used to work was replaced by a very posh house, in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in London. John had an assistant, and he no longer picked up his clients' calls. He didn't even bother reading his own agenda. Now the lovely red-headed Kate arranged the sessions with his clients, picked up his phone calls, and told the clients eager to see John more than once that The Master beats you _once_.

He even had a driver.

But having it all did not make John happy. So, the day one young princess invited The Master to an important castle, John decided to have some fun.

He took pictures. Lots of pictures.

On his way back to London, The Master realised he had the perfect ammunition to play a power play with Britain's most important family. They offered him money, houses, estates, even a title.

John refused it all.

One of his clients told him about James Moriarty. The World's Consulting Criminal. The only one in the world, because he invented the job.

Do you want to have the Pope killed? America blown up? Call James Moriarty. That's what they said.

And one night, he called him. The following morning, they were having tea, and John was given a powerful camera phone and Sherlock's pictures.

Sherlock Holmes? The freak detective in the funny hat? Should be easy. What do you want?

Jim said he could take whatever he wanted from Sherlock. And the moment John asked what he could possibly take from him, from a mere and simple detective, Jim told him Sherlock was a virgin.

And John accepted the challenge. This Sherlock Holmes was quite attractive. He had the kind of cheekbones one could slap and have their hands cut. The Master rushed to his wardrobe as soon as Moriarty had a foot out of his house. He had to choose his best clothes to meet Mr Holmes.

But as soon as John was sent photographs of Sherlock walking around Buckingham Palace wearing nothing but a sheet, The Master knew he needed his battledress. Only his battledress.

The day John became famous, and his clients treated him well, he promised himself he would never let any one take his heart. He was a body people used. No one would ever get to his heart.

And the moment he met Sherlock Holmes he knew he had been beaten.

Playing with James Moriarty is expensive. John had promised him Sherlock's head.

Now John's buried six feet under.

"You two made such loud noises," Mrs Hudson's voice brought Sherlock back from his own thoughts. "It wasn't decent."

"Who cares about decent, Mrs Hudson?"

"What the neighbours must've said! And the carpet! The wallpaper and -"

"Mrs Hudson, I've already said I'm sorry."

The old landlady nodded and looked elsewhere. The detective knew she was crying. "I will... you know."

She left him alone and soon he was facing that cold gravestone with nothing to say.

John angered him. Now Sherlock understood why he had been so tender, so loving, and rough the last time they made love. John had always known it was their last time.

Their last dinner.

As soon as he opened his eyes after surgery, he took the water supply, the hose line, and went downstairs to the mortuary. There was Molly. And there she showed him the body. She warned him the head was... well, John had jumped off a tall building. She warned him he was almost unrecognisable.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the body and he just nodded.

The dead man was John.

Mycroft didn't lie. He only lied when he said it was John's choice.

But Sherlock knew better. John died because he knew too many secrets. Dangerous secrets that could topple governments, regimes, people in power. If he hadn't jumped, Moriarty's men would have taken him and made him confess.

The secrets John owned could destroy people like Mycroft.

So Sherlock didn't believe his brother when he said he had nothing to do with John's _suicide_.

The detective cut himself off him.

And, as if John knew this was going to happen, he left Sherlock his camera phone and a briefcase filled in with enough money to last a lifetime.

Mrs Hudson also received a cheque and a note. There John said he was paying for Sherlock's rooms for three years. And that there was also extra money to replace the carpets, the wallpaper, and whatever they had ruined in the flat.

John left Greg his handcuffs. And his badges. Well, the ones Sherlock had been pickpocketing for years.

Sherlock looked at the grave and said nothing. There was nothing he wished to say. Gravestones couldn't hear.

Nor dead men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next chapter is the last one!


	21. The letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to cover season 3, so there will be five more chapters, I think.

"A month."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was for a case."

"It just took you one month. Care to explain why you went back to that? Again?" Greg sighed tiredly. "You could've talked to me. Or Mary."

"I was undercover."

"You haven't had a case in months!"

"How do you know that?"

"You haven't pissed off any of my officials," Lestrade gave him an angry look. "Nor harassed me. And where's my chair?"

"Gone," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "It blocked my view. Shower. You make tea."

And that was as modest and petulant as he gets. Sherlock made his way to the bathroom leaving Greg alone.

Yes, he had always been like that.

That was the moment he took a look around the flat he used to share with Sherlock for almost three years. Everything was the same, really. There was the skull, the smiley face on the wall, the same curtains, the violin, the mirror, the London amp on the wall.

When John Watson committed suicide, and Greg's name was featured on the papers, his wife filled in a divorce petition. Suddenly, his name was linked not only to the detective in the funny hat, but also to London's top male escort, and journalists started talking nasty things. Some said they were a threesome.

A threesome, really.

Greg almost lost got fired and almost lost his whole career. Almost. Though he did lose something: his marriage. And a couple of weeks later, there he was, knocking at Sherlock's door, being received by Mrs Hudson, and finally sharing a cuppa with Sherlock.

That night the consulting detective deduced not only that Greg had a past with men, but also that his wife knew all about it, so as soon as she read the papers, she put two and two together and thought that linking Greg, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was a very good alibi if she wanted to get out of a marriage without admitting she had been shagging a PE teacher behind Greg's back for a whole year and had a number of lovers over the years.

So for almost three years Greg lived with Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't that bad actually. Sometimes Sherlock would spend days and days without muttering a word. The landlady was more like a housekeeper, so when Greg came back after a long day at the Yard, he knew there was always a nice dinner and a hot cuppa waiting for him. It was actually nice to live with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. On Sundays she insisted they had lunch with her. Both obliged, and soon Greg knew why the old lady insisted so much: Sherlock. Since John's suicide, he barely spoke, and he only did it to correct the journalists, and policemen in crap and shitty films.

On Sundays Sherlock was a bit more talkative, and he even smiled at the tales Mrs Hudson told them about her time with her husband, who ran a drug cartel in Miami. She told them stories of the nice bodyguards her husband kept all around their house near the beach, about the time they received a lovely group of Colombian people and how lovely they were. When Greg asked what they did to avoid the police and being discovered, Mrs Hudson insisted all she did was the typing, and avoided mentioning her past as an exotic dancer. Sherlock said there were some videos on YouTube.

The bad thing about living with Sherlock Holmes was his brother. The moment John Watson's lifeless body was buried six feet under, Sherlock cut himself off him. And the moment Greg moved in with him, Mycroft insisted they met once a week and discuss Sherlock's life. Or that's what Mycroft Holmes says when he kidnaps you and takes you to old factories and buildings and offers you money in exchange of Sherlock's whereabouts.

He never told Sherlock about these meetings. Greg barely told Mycroft a thing, and when he did, he said what he knew: Sherlock sleeps, eats, plays the violin, barely uses his computer, doesn't go out much, helps Mrs Hudson with the pipes, solves domestic and mundane cases like the one about the missing cat, and that's it. But later Greg realised Sherlock had always known, of course, and said he was stupid for never taking Mycroft's money.

One day Sherlock showed Greg a case filled in with enough money to last a lifetime. And John's camera phone.

That was all John left.

Time passed by, the DI of the Scotland Yard met Mary Morstan, married her, and moved to the suburbs. Mary was nice, never complained about his job, or about the long hours he spent at the Yard working, or about Sherlock. They got along well, and Sherlock was the best man at their wedding. He gave a lovely speech, which actually made Greg, Mary and everyone cry, played the violin, and told Mary she was pregnant.

And now he was expecting a baby girl and how the hell was he supposed to ask Sherlock if he wanted to be the godfather of his child?

"Oh, Greg, hi!" Janine said, stepping into the kitchen, wearing _nothing_ apart from one of Sherlock's shirts and looking as if she had a wild night. "How's Mary? How's Married life going?"

What the actual fuck? "Hi... Janine? Fine, fine."

She smiled at him. "I'm a bit late, you know. Care to prepare some coffee?"

"Um, sure."

Greg noticed that as soon as she realised Sherlock was in the shower, she made her way to the bathroom and got in, not caring he was there at all.

* * *

Greg watched Sherlock being devoured by Janine. It was... weird, really. To be honest, it wasn't weird at all. It was... unexpected? Well, Sherlock was finally moving on. But Janine, really? Was Sherlock really into women?

"Must I deduce you've got some questions?"

"One or two."

"Naturally."

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Yes." Sherlock stood up from his chair and turned to his wall covered with London's map. "Now, Magnussen. Magnussen is like a shark – it's the only way I can describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, Greg – stood up close to the glass? Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes... That's what he is. I've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen."

"She's you girlfriend. For real?"

Sherlock sighed a bit. "Yes, she is. Now," The consulting detective pulled at the map hanging on his wall. There were several pictures of newspapers owner Charles Augustus Magnussen, a Danish businessman who's been making headlines after being found non-guilty of the charge of phone hacking of several people in the showbiz. "I'm not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail. He has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name is Appledore. No one dares go in."

This was really getting Greg's attention. "And why care about him?"

Because that man was standing there, in the flat, he and his gorillas. Sherlock asked him if he accepted him as intermediary between him and Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, a MP.

Sherlock never took cases from these people. He always said it was an insult to his intelligence. But there was Sherlock, watching Magnussen peeing on his fireplace, and just because an old lady, a MP to be precise, had hired him to recover a couple of letters her husband had exchanged with a young male person something like twenty years ago.

Magnussen had the letters and he was staying in London for two days. Sherlock knew his schedule and where he was staying that night. He said they were simply breaking into his office in London while Magnussen had a dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain, so they could easily break into his office, take the letters, and the world as they knew it was going to be a better place to live again.

Wait. What? "Why do you care about just a couple of letters?" Greg asked, actually sensing there was more than meets the eye here. "MPs have tried to hire you before and you never accepted their cases."

"This is a seven."

"No, it isn't," Greg crossed his arms over his chest. "This is a four, and you never do any legwork unless it's a seven. Why help Lady Whatever-Her-Name-Is?"

Sherlock wasn't facing Greg the moment he told him all about it. Instead, he was facing his lovely wall all covered with photographs of Magnussen, dates, places, and list of names.

"What Lady Elizabeth Smallwood wants to recover are letters her husband and John exchanged twenty years ago."


	22. Breaking in

"Where are we going?" Greg asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"Matrimony is slowing you down. And you've put on eight pounds."

"Five."

"Mary and I think eight." Sherlock chuckled at his small victory. "We are going to break into Magnussen's office."

There remained silent for some minutes. Sherlock kept on sending texts while Greg asked himself why he had to go to Sherlock's. He knew the consulting detective could do well alone. On his own. This was his day off, and he knew he should have stayed home, with Mary, and enjoy his new house in the suburbs, maybe start painting the baby's room now they knew they were expecting a baby girl.

But he could not let Sherlock break into Magnussen's office alone, right?

And how was he supposed to ask Sherlock Holmes if he wanted to be the godfather of his daughter? Was Sherlock going to like his daughter? Was he going to take care of her if anything happened to him? Because Greg knew he ought to be serious: he was a cop, well, not any cop, but a detective inspector of the criminal division, and he was quite a public person. Well, he had been on the papers. He still was sometimes. And it was dangerous, and he knew he could get killed. That was the whole point of having godparents, right? They were the ones supposed to look after your children if anything happened to you, right?

It wasn't a question of wanting or not, really. Sherlock was Greg and Mary's only choice, and she almost kicked his arse today when she found out he hadn't asked Sherlock yet. Because really, who else could be their baby girl's godfather? He didn't have any brothers or sisters, nor an extended family. He had a distant relation here and there, but no one was close enough, or responsible enough. Greg also considered some workmates. Dimmock was a good guy, but yet, why choosing him where they only saw their faces during their monthly meeting with their boss? And Anderson? Well, they've been mates for a while, and even had pints together every now and then, but Mary didn't like him. And Sherlock would never approve of him.

So they were stuck with Sherlock.

Well, not 'stuck'. Greg had known Sherlock since he was a twenty-something junkie who solved crimes for free (well, he always solved cases for free because the Yard was never going to pay someone who did not belong to the force or had no proper qualifications). Greg had seen Sherlock's best and worst. And Sherlock had also given him shelter when he had rows with his ex-wife, helped him solve impossible cases which gave him some promotions and recognition, and well, he liked Sherlock.

Mary also liked him too. They got along well. And for god's sake, Sherlock chose the cake and the wine for their wedding!

"You've got questions," The consulting detective broke the silence between them. "you're being annoying."

"What's on the letters?"

Sherlock's eyes were fixed elsewhere. "Next question."

"No, you're going to answer this one, mate. What's on the letters?"

"You want me to be your child's godfather."

"Let's leave that for later. I'm a detective inspector and I'm going to break into the King of Tabloid's office and I need to know why."

Sherlock shrugged. "I need someone with a badge and a gun."

"Don't pull that with me," Greg insisted. "It's the same all over again."

"The same?"

"Yes."

"Problem?"

"Well, yes!" Greg was now getting impatient. "It's Charles Magnussen, Sherlock. Does it ring a bell to you? He owns practically fifty percent of Britain's newspapers and we're about to break into his office just to recover some porn letters John sent to Lady Whatever-Her-Name-Is's husband!"

The consulting detective immediately asked the cabbie to stop the car. He paid and then Greg realised they were close to Magnussen's offices and yet, for some reason, Sherlock decided that getting there on foot was for the best.

"There is no sexual content. I've been assured."

"So what's on them to make them so important?"

They got into the building. Greg's eyes immediately fell on the security cameras and the security personnel. There was no way they could make it into Magnussen's office without being discovered, and later possibly beaten to bloody pulps before calling the police. Yeah, a nasty thing if you asked Greg. He imagined himself being taken to the Scotland Yard. His whole career could finish just now.

But Sherlock was clever. Greg hesitated, and then realised he wouldn't have taken them there if he hadn't had a plan. Because he had a plan, right? Maybe some keys? Or perhaps and insider?

"Janine... don't make me do this here."

That was the key. A bloody engagement ring and a fake proposal and they were in a bloody elevator getting into Mangussen's office.

"You see? As long as there's people, there's always a weak spot."

"That was Janine!"

"Yes, of course it was Janine. She's Magnussen's PA. That's the _whole_ point."

"So..." Greg looked confused. "Did you just get engaged to break into an office?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was very lucky to meet her at your wedding. You can take some credit."

"She bloody loves you!"

"Human error."

Greg sighed and shook his head in a way he new Sherlock despised. "And what you gonna do now?"

"I'm not actually marry her, obviously. There's only so far you can go."

"So you... you never..."

"I never what?"

"You know what!"

"You are a grown man in your middle forties and you still find it difficult to say 'sex'." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How far do you think I'm capable of doing for the sake of a case?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You just got engaged."

"That answers your question."

That was the moment they got into Magnussen's office and found Janine lying on the floor. "How rude. I've just proposed." He turned to Greg, who was on his knees next to her body, taking her vitals. "Do they really do that?"

"Blood..." Greg pointed at her head. "She's been hit. Sherlock, someone's here."

The consulting detective went to Magnussen's desk. It was warm. He was still there.

Claire-de-la-lune

"Claire-de-la-lune."

"What?"

"Claire-de-la-lune," Sherlock repeated, frowning. "I know it. Why?"

"Mary wears it."

"Not Mary." Sherlock made his way to Magnussen's penthouse. "Lady Smallwood."

He was angry because he had assured her he was taking those letters from Magnussen's hands. He really assured her. For god's sake, he was breaking into his bloody highly secured penthouse in the most secured area of London.

As he took the stairs, he heard Magnussen speaking. Probably bargaining with his killer. Ha. He had too many enemies, but Sherlock knew the one who was there.

"What will your husband think? You're doing this to protect him from the truth... but is this the protection he would want?"

"If you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume, Lady Smallwood."

Because the moment MP Lady Elizabeth Smallwood stepped into his flat, Sherlock saw the signs of a woman trying to please a husband who did not love her. Probably never had. Dyed hair from a very early age, the make up was from a brand famous among young women. Her perfume was too strong, too juvenile.

She never said it and Sherlock never voiced this deduction, but Lady Smallwood was competing against his husband's younger lovers. She was playing against the young males and females who pleased her husband. And against John Watson's ghost.

"He was his favourite," Lady Smallwood almost whispered, as if afraid the walls would later retell her story. "Heavens, he was young enough to be his son."

"How did it happen?"

Sherlock couldn't care less about Lady Smallwood's husband. What he really wanted to know was how John got involved with a man who was old enough to be his father, and not only belonged to London's high class, but was also a nobleman.

"It was an affair, Mister Holmes. You're a detective yourself," she said, with defiance in her voice. "You know what affairs are like."

"Why have you come to me?"

"You are the only whom I can fully trust those letters with."

"But why?"

"Because you know who John Watson was."

Across her was Magnussen, on his knees, looking tearful, and really scared. Who would have thought that a MP was going to dress in black from head to toes, break into Magnussen's office, determined to kill him? Well, her whole career was at stake. Her career, her honour, and her husband's.

She was clearly a woman trying to protect her husband.

"That's not... that's not Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, Mister Holmes."

When she turned, Sherlock couldn't believe it. It was Mary. Mary Lestrade. Greg's wife. The mother of his child. His friend.

Mary was holding a gun and she was still aiming at Magnussen when her blue eyes were fixed on his, and Sherlock understood. She had fooled everyone.

_LIAR._

"Is Greg with you?"

He couldn't even say a word.

"I repeat: is Greg _here_ with you?"

"Yes."

She nodded.

"So, what are you going to do?" Magnussen finally spoke. "Kill us both?"

"Mary, whatever he's got on you... let me help."

He tried to take a step towards her, but she was quicker, and soon she was not aiming at Magnussen anymore, but at Greg's best friend, Sherlock Holmes. "One more step and I kill you."

"No, Mrs Lestrade."

"My boss' gonna be pretty angry at me," she gave him a cold smile. "Sorry."

And then, she shot at him. It went straight to his shoulder. And when he looked, there was no blood, but it burned. It bloody burned and Sherlock fell backwards.


	23. Coming Back

Sherlock waited in the shadows. The pain was unbearable. But tonight, he had matters to see to. The moment he decided to discharge himself from hospital he knew he ought to unmask Mary Morstan. And not only find out who she is, or was; Sherlock knew he ought to know who she was working for. If she was working for _him_ , then Sherlock ought to know.

But he was _dead_.

The lie in Leinster Gardens. Hidden in plain sight. How thoughtful of Sherlock, really. Just like Mary, the place where Greg and himself were to know who Mary Morstan was was a façade.

"Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where five years ago you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter her identity. That's why you don't have friends from before that date."

Mary smiled. "You were very slow."

From the shadows, Sherlock pressed the phone close to his ear. "How good a shot are you?"

Sherlock couldn't believe it the moment Mary put on a show and pulled out a gun from inside her pocket. She had come prepared. And even when the detective had no intentions of hurting her, or even telling everyone who she was, Mary had a gun, and it was loaded, and it was clear she was determined to go as far as to kill him if that would prevent Greg and everyone from knowing who she was.

And who was her employer.

Mary chuckled. "How badly do you want to find out?"

"If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even _Greg_ could get somewhere with that. I want to know how good you are. Go on. Show me. The detective's wife must be a little bit bored by now."

Sherlock wasn't surprised th moment he saw Mary flicking a coin high into the air and aiming and shooting, all in just seconds.

"May I see?"

Mary turned and realised the figure she had been addressing to ever since she had set foot in that place was not Sherlock but a dummy.

Or so she believed.

"It's a dummy. I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick."

Sherlock picked up the coin. The shot was perfect. And suddenly all his suspicions were confirmed: Mary Watson was a trained assassin.

But the question remained: was she hired to kill Sherlock?

Or to protect him?

"And yet, over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot." Sherlock started breathing heavily, and he knew he had just a few minutes before collapsing. "Enough to hospitalise me; not enough to kill me. That wasn't a miss. That was surgery."

Lestrade's wife gave him a tight smile. "If you're planning on telling Greg all of this..." she aimed at him. "This time, it won't be a miss."

Behind her, Sherlock watched Greg standing up slowly, very slowly, and silently so Mary wouldn't notice.

"You won't do it."

"Won't I?" Mary pulled at the safe and smiled darkly.

"I'll take your case." Sherlock pressed a hand to her shoulder and sighed heavily. "Why didn't you come to me in the first place?"

Mary, still aiming at him, took some steps closer. "Because Greg can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever," She suddenly pulled at the safe and placed her gun back to the pocket of her coat. "and, Sherlock, I will never let that happen."

Enough. That was enough. It was time to let the cat out of the bag.

"Please, understand." Mary said, almost begging. "There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening."

"Sorry."

Sherlock turned on the lights, and Mary heard someone walking behind her. Her eyes, wide as saucers, were suddenly full of tears. Instinctively, she pressed a hand to her little baby bump and blinked. Tears rolled down her cheeks when she heard Sherlock's hoarse voice.

"Now talk, and sort it out. Do it quickly."

And Greg walked past her, not even giving her a glance.

* * *

On their way to Baker Street, Mary sat next to Greg, but they did not speak. Sherlock neither. The Detective Inspector kept her eyes on the window, glancing occasionally at the pedestrians, wondering what lives they led, if they were happy, or if they had lives which had just shattered and would probably never be the same again. Like his.

Because the woman he loved and was carrying his child was a liar. Greg bit his lip and tried very hard not to cry as he remembered the scenes he had just witnessed. Mary shooting, proving how good a shot she was. Then, threatening Sherlock.

Who was he married to?

The moment Sherlock told him, he thought Greg would not believe him.

But Greg already knew.

Mrs Hudson watched the Lestrades walking into the flat, and behind them was Sherlock. The Consulting Detective looked ill, and he had bags under his eyes. He looked like a mess, and he kept pressing a hand to her wounded shoulder, as if he could just stop the unbearable pain for the few minutes he had left.

"What is going on?"

Lestrade smiled sarcastically, though his eyes were on Mary. "Bloody good question."

"The Lestrades are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do."

The DI of the NSY kept his eyes on Mary. "Oh, I have a better question: is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?"

No one said a word for a moment. Mrs Hudson couldn't lie a finger on what was going on, and Mary was standing in the middle of the sitting room, her hands locked together. Her eyes on her husband's.

And Sherlock behind Lestrade. "Yes."

All those years together seem to have gone through Lestrade's mind, because suddenly, he shouted, and shouted very loudly. "SHUT UP!" And not even Mary seemed to be surprised. "And stay shut up, because this is not funny."

"I didn't say it was funny."

Lestrade turned to Mary. "You. What have I ever done? Hmm? My whole life... to deserve you?"

"Nothing."

There was the man everyone believed dead. There was the man who could have destroyed the most powerful family in Britain, and who had enough secrets to start the Third World War.

Mary's expression didn't change the moment The Master stepped into the flat. Mrs Hudson pressed a hand to her mouth and cried. Lestrade turned and watched John as if he were a mere apparition.

But Sherlock looked at John and soon realised he wasn't the same man he had loved.

"You did nothing," John said. "I'm sorry."


	24. You did nothing

Mycroft Holmes looked at his surroundings and wished he could be somewhere else. Somewhere where he could be surrounded by paperwork, his red telephone, his lovely desk, his scotch, his own chair. Why on Earth he had to agree to this? Christmas day was always a very awful day with boring people, no political scandals, no international issues he ought to take care of, or people to stalk and scare.

"Oh, dear God, it's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it only be two o'clock? I'm in agony."

Sherlock's eyes left the newspaper he had been reading for a couple of minutes and fell on his brother's back. As usual, and as he always did every past Christmas, Mycroft always helped their mother with the potatoes. Well, he watched.

Behind his mother and Mycroft, Sherlock's eyes found John, who was stirring something which was heating on the stove, and preparing some tea for everyone. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a knitted jumper.

A Christmas jumper Mummy gave him.

"Mickey, is this your laptop?"

"On which depends the security of the free world, yes and you've got potatoes on it!"

Mummy was chopping potatoes on Mycroft's laptop and suddenly they all heard John laughing.

Sherlock chuckled.

"Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important."

The politician rolled his eyes. "Why are we doing this? We _never_ do this."

"We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are all very happy."

"Am _I_ happy too? I haven't checked."

For three years Sherlock and Mycroft didn't see each other. Sherlock decided to cut himself off his brother and his family. He stopped going back home and every time his parents called and asked why they were not talking any more, the detective said they should ask Mycroft.

The detective knew the circumstances in which John faked his own suicide. And he also knew Mycroft was the one behind all of it. His own brother found a body, paid for a fake funeral, and said it was for the best that John was gone. Yeah, it was for Mycroft's own well being that John was gone, because the Master knew far too many secrets that could topple Mycroft's world as everyone knew it. In fact, John knew enough secrets to start the Third World War.

"Behave, Mike." Mummy patted his arm. "Must I remind you we have a special guest?" She smiled at John. "Sherlock brought a date home and you're being rude."

John cleared his throat and started offering everyone tea.

"Mrs Holmes. Tea?"

"Ah, thank you, dear. I'm sorry about my Mike -"

"Mycroft!"

John smiled even more the moment he offered Mycroft a cup. "No worries, Mrs H. I know what Mycroft here likes." The Master winked at the politician.

"Oh, do you?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "No sugar, right, Mycroft?" Then, John turned to Sherlock. "Oh, you mean _that_. No. He hires my competitors."

Mrs Holmes frowned a bit. "What competitors?"

Sherlock's eyes went back to the newspaper. "Probably stop talking now."

"Okay. I'll just go and offer Mary and Greg some."

As soon as John was out of earshot, and as soon as he had closed the kitchen's door, Mycroft turned to his brother. "Lovely when you bring your friends round."

"Stop it, you. Somebody's put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous."

John's smile vanished as soon as he got into the sitting room. There was Mary, sitting in an armchair, with a blanket covering her already prominent belly and her legs. There, he found her alone reading, or pretending to be reading the books and magazines on the coffee table.

"How are you feeling?"

"A bit better, thanks." She sipped some of the tea he had given her and gave him a little smile. "Can't even feel it. Where did you get it?"

John winked at her. "A Master never reveals his secrets."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"Well," John took two pieces of the wood he'd helped Mr Holmes with early in the morning into the fire. "Probably not."

The door opened and Greg stepped in. As soon as his eyes met John's, he sighed to himself. He wasn't quite sure how to act towards the man. Even when John had already said he never meant to do all of this, and Greg believed him, there were things he still needed to process and he still needed time not to being angry any more.

"John."

"Hi, Greg." He soon realised Mary was hiding herself behind a book and John knew he needed to be somewhere else. Not there. "I, um, I'll leave you alone."

Mary watched John leaving and knew it was probably the last time she was seeing him. And she also knew she should have told him how grateful she was and how much she loved him, because when she had acquired a new identity and tried to build a new life and leave all those CIA jobs behind, John was the one who gave her a family: John had given her Greg, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson. They were her family now.

Well, she wasn't sure whether Greg still wanted her or not.

"Come here."

"No."

"Just..." Greg bit his lip. "come here."

Once Mary stood across Greg, he opened his hand and there it was. The memory stick which contained everything Mary was and used to be.

She couldn't read faces, so she could not tell whether Greg had read it or not. But one thing she was pretty sure of: Greg would stop loving her the moment he saw all that was in that memory stick with her initials.

A.G.R.A.

* * *

"You. What have I ever done? Hmm? My whole life... to deserve you?"

"Nothing."

There was the man everyone believed dead. There was the man who could have destroyed the most powerful family in Britain, and who had enough secrets to start the Third World War.

Mary's expression didn't change the moment The Master stepped into the flat. Mrs Hudson pressed a hand to her mouth and cried. Lestrade turned and watched John as if he were a mere apparition.

But Sherlock looked at John and soon realised he wasn't the same man he had loved.

"You did nothing," John said. "I'm sorry."

For seconds everyone went silent. Mrs Hudson ran downstairs, probably knowing there was no place for her in this domestic the Lestrades were about to have. A domestic that was not any domestic at all, but the moment where everyone were to know the whole truth behind the lives they have been leading for the last three years.

Because nothing was actually true.

Well, some things.

"You'd better sit," John turned to Sherlock. "we're about to lose you again."

Just like that.

Sherlock sat on his own chair and watched Greg taking his. Or the chair that used to be John's. The Master and Mary took the two chairs left and sat across one another. That is how the four of them sat and got ready to unravel the mystery of John Watson. And Mary Morstan's too.


	25. Revelations

**_Baker Street_ **

Sherlock watched Mary making eye contact with John. The Master merely nodded, as if he were approving of what was to come. And then, she produced a flashdrive with four initials written on it.

A.G.R.A

"What is that?"

Mary looked at her husband. There was no point lying anymore. "My initials." And before Sherlock could take hold of the flashdrive, he took it and immediately placed it in his jeans pockets. "Greg... everything about who I was is on there," a tear was about to leave her eye. "if you love me, don't read it in front of me."

"Why?"

"Because you won't love me when you've finished."

Greg said nothing, but held her gaze and wondered why, after so many years in the force, and all the experience he had acquired, he never realised who the woman he was married to really was. "Really?" He asked sarcastically.

Mary merely nodded. "And I don't want to see that happen."

No one spoke a word for several seconds. Both John and Sherlock gave the couple a moment to digest what was going on. And there was still more to be revealed.

"How much do you know already?"

It was Mary who asked the question. And Sherlock knew it was time to face it. He had very little time and he was about to pass out. His body hurt. Everything hurt.

"By your skill set, you are... or _were_ an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something. You've used your skills to disappear. Magnussen knows your secret, which is why you were going to kill him. And I assume you befriended Janine in order to get close to him."

Mary smiled a bit. She had always admired Sherlock's cleverness, and wondered how, after so long, he never realised who she was. Actually, she knew why. It was because Greg was his _friend_.

"You can talk!"

Greg snorted the moment he saw Mary and Sherlock smiling at each other. "Look at you two. _You_ should have got married."

No one said a word. Everyone knew it, everyone but Greg. It took Sherlock some seconds to realise what was the plan, John's plan.

"Greg -"

"That was the plan, wasn't it." Greg cut John off.

"She was supposed to befriend Sherlock." John finally spoke. "I hired her to protect him. But there were miscalculations."

Greg shook his head. He looked indignant, to say the least. So there was Sherlock, his wife who was carrying his child, and John, the man who almost got himself killed when he decided to play a power play with the most powerful family in Britain.

"So I was a miscalculation?"

"I befriended you to get close to Sherlock." Mary tried to reach for his hand, but Greg rejected her touch. "But I fell in love with you and I couldn't help it."

"She's not lying," Sherlock admitted. And then, the detective turned to John. "You two knew each other."

John nodded, and Mary remained silent. Her eyes were on the floor, and Greg decided it wasn't the moment to make assumptions. Was his wife, apart from a trained agent, part of another world? John's world maybe?

He didn't want to think of it. And he never would in the future.

Sherlock didn't need to ask John. It was all written on Mary's face. The moment John faked his suicide, he hired Mary to somehow befriend him and protect him of the men Moriarty could have left.

"The stuff Magnussen has on you..."

"I could go to prison for the rest of my life." Mary admitted. "So I was gonna kill him."

"Of course you were," Greg said, sarcastically.

"People like him _should_ be killed. That's why people like me exist."

"Right." The DI looked at her once again. "So that's what you are. An assassin. Good."

John decided it was his time to intervene. "Magnussen always knew. But when he started threatening Sherlock, I asked Mary to kill him."

"And why didn't you do it, huh?" Greg asked, furious.

"Because I was not supposed to come back." This time, Sherlock met John's eyes. And this time John saw little tears on his lover's eyes. It was only John who knew that those tears were not tears of pain, but tears of sadness.

Then, they heard a siren and two paramedics were climbing the stairs. "They say there was a shooting."

John stood up. "A couple of days ago, but he needs some morphine." The Master helped the paramedics and soon he was taking Sherlock's hand and leaving with him in the ambulance. John gave Mary one last reassuring smile and left with Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, sir. Only close relatives -"

"I'm his husband."

The nurse allowed John to get into the ambulance with Sherlock and he held his hand all the while. Sherlock said nothing, because he was being given oxygen and he really had no strength to speak. "I'm here with you, Sherlock."

The last thing Sherlock saw, before closing his eyes, was John taking his hand and pressing a warm kiss to his knuckles.

In his dreams they were together again. They were in Baker Street, and John was making tea. He was playing the violin. And then, John approached him and said it was the most beautiful song he had ever heard. Sherlock drank John's tea and smiled a bit. You should smile more, John said. You look completely edible when you smile.

"Do I?"

"Yes."

John rested his head against his chest for long seconds. Sherlock's arms were around that short man, and soon the detective felt John's distinctive smell. He also felt the softness of that hideous jumpers John insisted on wearing. They were not that hideous, actually. Sherlock secretly believed they made John look better than those suits he wore before.

One day John revealed he had always hated wearing suits. They were merely masks he wore. And they reminded him of his days as a male escort.

"I don't want to go back to that life."

Sherlock opened his eyes and found John sitting on what looked like a very uncomfortable chair right across his bed. The Master was soundly sleeping, and he was no longer wearing that suit Sherlock remembered he had the moment he stepped into Baker Street and came back to life. This time John was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a blue knitted jumper.

The detective rubbed his eyes and tried to find something that would tell him where John had been, what he had done.

Why he had to leave.

"Ask me."

Sherlock remained silent.

"All the things you want to know," John said sleepily, rubbed his eyes and then stood up next to Sherlock's side. "ask me. I'm here. I won't go anywhere." The Master tried to comb Sherlock's dark curls with his fingers. "Are you in pain?"

The taller man shook his head.

"Good. You need to eat. Gain strength." John smiled at him and pressed a loving kiss to his forehead. "Mary and Greg called; they send their love."

"Liar." Sherlock said hoarsely.

John smirked. "Mary called."

"Where's Greg?"

"He was here early this morning." John stopped combing Sherlock's hair and took his hand. "He's still angry at me. Can't blame him, though."

"Why did you leave?"

"Because it was them or me." The Master admitted. He felt Sherlock's hand was cold, so he sat next to him and took his hand with both of his. "I promised Moriarty your head. But I fell in love with you."

Sherlock said nothing, but looked puzzled.

"He had snipers on all your friends."

"They had to see you jump."

John nodded. "I knew you could live without me. But not without them."

"I loved you."

None of them said a word for a minute. Both knew it was the first time Sherlock said he loved John. And John had to try very hard not to cry.

"They took good care of you." John faked a smile. "Mrs Hudson fed you well. Mycroft and Greg looked after you. And Mary too."

"The assassins living near Baker Street - you hired them."

"Yes. Mary too. She was looking after you from afar. When I faked my suicide I instructed her to get close to you." John said, as if Sherlock was a little child who needed a story to go back to sleep.

"Liar." Sherlock smiled a bit, sideways. "She was supposed to become my lover. That is why you once asked me if I had been with a woman."

John chuckled. "That option had to be discarded. You could have never taken a female lover. She was keen on it, found you attractive."

"So when she found out Greg was living with me, she proceeded to befriend him."

"Yes." John's eyes fell on the window behind Sherlock. He remembered Mary's briefings and reports on Sherlock. He could perfectly remember all the signs on her face when she spoke about Greg. "And she was head over heels in love with him."

"But that was not the plan. Actually, their marriage only increased the odds stacked against you."

"I was supposed to never come back. I knew Mary and I trusted she would be there for you only. As your lover or friend, it didn't matter." John admitted. "But I could not ask her to stop loving Greg. She's the man of her life. And they're having a baby."

"Where have you been?"

"Here and there." John licked his lips and smiled. "Travelled a lot. Seen too much. Mycroft helped lots. Moriarty's empire is history now."

"Of course he helped." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John smiled. He straightened his clothes, ran a hand through his hair and took his coat. "Will increase the dose," he said as he leaned on the morphine supplier. "That should do. I'll ask a nurse to bring you some food. Get some rest. Doctor's orders."

"Are you leaving?"

"Oh, no. I've got a Christmas dinner to attend." The Master winked at Sherlock. "Your parents were here. They are lovely."

Sherlock looked away. John pressed one last kiss to Sherlock's cheek and left.

_**Present time** _

"The problems of your past are your business." Greg said softly, taking his wife's hands. "But the problems of your future are mi privilege."

Mary started crying the moment she watched Greg throwing the flashdrive with her initials into the fire.

"I didn't read it."

"You don't even know my name."

"Is Mary Lestrade good enough for you?"

Mary nodded through the tears. "Oh God, yes!"

"It's good for me too." Greg smiled at her and gave her a soft kiss when he watched her fainting. "Mary? Mary?"

"Don't drink Mary's tea." John said as he opened the door and handed Greg his coat.

The DI put on his coat, clueless of what was going on and watched John checking on Mary. "Don't worry. I prepared the dose myself. Won't affect your baby. Now, let's see how are the Holmes doing."

Greg watched in awe the entire Holmes family drugged in the kitchen. John checked they were all breathing and then glanced at his watch. "We've got an hour, give or take. Did you bring your gun?"

"Why would I bring my gun to the Holmes' Christmas dinner?"

John smiled at him. "Because it's Christmas and you're a policeman."

"I don't understand. What's happening?"

"I'm making a deal with the devil," John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and pressed his hand to his cheek. "Tell him I love you, will you."

"John?"

"Come with me."

"But... where are we going?"

John straightened his suit. "Appledore."


End file.
